


No Mistakes

by TreacleA



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU Season 8, Alternative Buffy S8, Amnesiac!Spike, Buffy loves Spike, F/M, Mostly Fluff, Post Sunnydale-Apocalypse, hurt comfort, no major character deaths i promise, plotty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 21:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12690228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleA/pseuds/TreacleA
Summary: 'No name, no money, no cigarettes and no idea what he's doing lying face down in the middle of a desert.'----------------------------This is a post 'Chosen' Spike story which I wrote just after it aired in 2003, and which (at the time) had the dubious honour of being the only novel-length story I had ever completed. I haven't re-read it before I re-posted it from ff.net, because I think maybe my brain would explode with the need to edit/rewrite it, so I apologise for any typos or horrible grammar. I feel it's important I let this particular sleeping dog lie. I hope you enjoy it. And thanks to @RebCake for requesting it.(2003)





	1. Prologue

_"There are no mistakes. The events we bring upon ourselves, no matter how unpleasant, are necessary in order to learn what we need to learn; whatever steps we take, they are necessary to reach the places we've chosen to go."_

Richard Bach - **The Bridge Across Forever**

 

* * *

 

Heat.

He felt heat, and blinding light.

Light and heat  _and searing pain._

And then suddenly, nothing more.

Silence.

Utter and complete.

For the longest time, he lay still. Feeling the echo of a pain that had hollowed him out, burnt him to a cinder, resounding through his chest, through his ribcage. Feeling the light that had curled the skin from his bones like parchment still beating down, scalding his shadow to the floor beneath him. His neck twisted, slow and painful, and his fingers flexed, their muscles feeling like twigs; aching, brittle, and finally he let himself go, slumped to the ground.

He slept.

Or maybe he just fainted. Either way, it seemed no more than a few seconds had passed before he opened his eyes again, but already in that time the light had dimmed a little; now glowing through closed eyelids rather than corrosive. His lungs drew a little air in, slowly, as if they were charred from the inside, and with difficulty he took a small breath. Held it.

No pain.

Another.

Deeper. Even slower this time.

Still nothing. No ribs crushed, no agonising jar as ruined bones pierced flesh. He sucked in, filling his chest, wincing, ready for the agony.

Nothing.

His face felt hot, branded scarlet by fire, but with a supreme effort of will he forced his eyelids open, readying himself for the inevitable horror he knew he had to be about to face. Every inch of his body spoke of catastrophe, of an accident the like of which he had never faced before. He had to be dying. Had to be. The imprint of pain upon him was so deep, so great, that he knew he should already be dead. This had to be one of those frozen, twilight moments, the kind Vietnam Vets always spoke of; their blood leaking out of them, limbs blown to shreds, but pain gone as they suddenly noticed the path of a spider on it's web.

He opened his eyes, and saw his hand.

It _had_ to be his hand, because look; and a slow slight crane of his neck to confirm this, it was attached to his arm. And it didn't seem to have been harmed. Pink healthy skin, with just the hint of tan, and when he asked it to move, it did so. Fingertips pressing downwards into sand. Soft sand. Hot, bright sand that felt like warm sugar.

Moving his head to the other side now his chin dragged through it, the hard grains coating his lips. His tongue came out, involuntarily, spitting them out of his mouth as he beheld his other hand; lying like a precious thing, half-buried in gold. He gasped his relief. Christ, both of them. Thank fuck. He had both arms at least. A moments pause and then, grimacing, he braced his shoulders. Pushing down and bringing his hands together under his chest, he slowly pulled himself upright onto his knees.

He blinked, reaching to shade his eyes even before he'd thought to test the muscles in that arm. The sunlight so dazzling him, blazing white and sulphur yellow from every surface. Licked his lips, moistening them before touching fingertips to his mouth.

Nothing burnt. Just normal skin.

Felt his cheeks, his brow, then his hair; curling and thick with dry desert sand. Rubbed it through, and felt the tiny shower of pebbles rustle off and dust him.

The black t-shirt he was wearing was clean, intact, no burns or tears. Just a soft dry coating of dust which fell away as he brushed a hand down his chest and, when he pulled the hem up tentatively, the flesh underneath was just as unscathed. He pressed a hand hard against his stomach muscles, then his chest and ribs. Felt for something, anything. Some sign of what had happened to his body, to his physical self, the something that had to have been galvanic, terrible, tremendous. But instead he found only warm creamy skin, skin that felt smooth and salt-dry under the blazing desert sun. His hands slid down to his thighs, sinew and bones also seemingly unharmed, and pressed palms against them, brushed the denim off until they looked semi-clean.

Digging his toes into sand, one hand steadied his weight as he rose slowly, stiffly, to his feet. For a moment he wavered, the blood rushing singing to his skull, sending his sense of balance all to cock. Closed his eyes and waited, waited for gravity to make him her willing slave once again.

O.K.

Standing now.

Standing...good.

Just gonna stand here, until it all stops whirling like a...big fucking black wheel.

And eventually it did just that, the sky ending up just where it should be, the ground where it belonged. He opened his eyes again, blinked. Shaded with a hand, blinked again.

White.

White-out.

And then sand.

Sand and cactuses.

As far as he could see; a shimmering heat haze that rose from the ground like gas - twisting and warping everything in its iron grip - and above it, cobalt sky so damned blue that it hurt his bloody retinas. Bluer than bluer. Like the dictionary fucking definition of blue and frowning, he stared it down until the tears sprang out and he had to look away.

His feet seemed miles below him, like comedy feet, and he pushed one toe forward, burying it. Shook it free again and then stared quietly, curiously at his boot.

Big boot. Big leather boot.

Brought the other one forward; its companion. Stared at that one too.

Big leather boots with these fuck-off big straps that secured them at the side, hugging in close to his calves. They felt wrong somehow, too close, too heavy, the sun superheating them and with them his feet and toes. He frowned at them, silently berating himself for wearing them today, for choosing such fucking impractical footwear for a bloody walk in the desert.

Paused. Blinked again.

_And what the fuck...?_

What the fuck was he doing walking in a bloody desert anyway?

He glanced up.

And at noon? With a fucking sun like a dinner plate, slamming down at him out of a sky the size of Nevada. He must be _fucking nuts_. Either that or totally suicidal. Reached into a back pocket before he'd even thought why he would; what he was going for. Realised, and this almost in the exact same second that he found absolutely nothing, that he was looking for his cigarettes.

He smoked.

Did he smoke?

Questioned himself, felt the hunger in his blood. The need for them more than mental. A chemical need, a chemical imbalance. Decided in the next second; fuck that's _so fucking sad._ He should really quit. Looked around for a stick of gum instead. Because he had to have gum on him if he was quitting. That's what they all did, didn't they? Chewed gum? Patted his sides, felt around for his wallet.

Nothing.

No scraps of paper. No ticket stubs, no receipts for gas. His fingertips dug into the fine silver grit at the very bottom of each pocket, sifting it, and came up empty. No wallet. No nothing.

He narrowed his eyes, looked down at the ground he had crawled from. Nothing but the dim outline of his torso, two twin hollows where his elbows had burrowed deep into the ground. He bent, pushing the soft dunes aside, probing with his fingers. Something, he had to have had something, and then cool flat metal closed between them and he drew the thing out, sand silking off it and onto the desert floor.

A blackened disc, charred beyond recognition. Deeply embedded stones that must have been fakery, melted and fused as they were to the surrounding metal. The remnants of a chain hung from the top, links dusting into black powder as he held it, turned it, frowning. Something pulling and nagging at him deep down. Deep, _deep_ down. Knew this. He had to know this. It was important. Past tense, but still it had meaning, some feeling attached, because the emotions were still there. Clinging to the shape of it, like the fragile memory of a dream on waking. He shook his head, tried like hell to focus on them - make them sharp, and as he did so felt them slip away from him.

He shook his head in frustration, but accepting it in the same moment. It was gone. He would remember eventually he was sure, but for now it had gone. Stood again, and gently slid the object into his empty pocket. Brushed its dust from the front of his shirt. Shaded his eyes once more, stared out across the desert.

Sand.

Sand and cactuses.

_Cacti._

A light hot wind caught his hair, blowing a single blonde strand over his face, and he smoothed it back. Pushed fingers back through the rest. Frowned. Pushed a hand slowly down into one back pocket.

So...then.

Now what?


	2. Mojave

Walking was boring.

The mechanics of it, one foot in front of the other and the incredible slowness of progress. He thought about jogging, breaking into a run, but then dismissed the idea. In order to run you had to have something to run towards, some purpose and, with nothing but an endless vista of sand and rock ahead of him, it was hard to summon up the enthusiasm to hurry. Besides - he glanced up, squinting at the sky for about the fiftieth time that hour - it was a nice enough day, and not so hot it made walking unpleasant.

The only thing that bothered him slightly was his lack of water which, he had a dim memory, was important. Licked his lips, and felt the the skin dry out again almost instantly. He needed to find something to drink pretty soon or he'd be in trouble. Stopped. Shaded his eyes and again and scanned the horizon.

But where?

A low wind started up, pulling the fine sand from the ground to whisper in the air around him and he blinked irritably, rubbing away the grit that seemed to be constantly collecting in his tear ducts. At least there weren't any flies. Bloody hated them.

He started to walk again, just because there wasn't really much else to do. Made a steady comforting rhythm with his feet in the dirt.

_Thump-tuff._

_Thump-tuff._

_Thump-tuff._

Started to sing softly to himself, picking up the pace a little with the beat.

_"She went a-way...for the holi-days._

_Said she was go-ing...to L.A,_

_But she never got there..._

_She never got there..._

_She never got there they sa - ay."_

It was a bad choice, the timing was a little off. He grunted, tried to think of something else, something with more of a bass line. Maybe from the golden age of The Clash. Slowed. Stopped. And a gradual silent tilt of the head.

O.K.

_::Name all the Ramone's decent albums::_

_::All? Come on...let's face it. 'Animal Boy' was pretty much the Alpha and Omega::_

O.K. So he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of prototype punk, what did that really say about him, other than he was obviously a discerning man with a timeless sense of good taste? One hand strayed to his face again, felt for the lines he knew had to be there. O.K. So he was no kid. He was...what 30? 32? Couldn't be any older than that. Tried checking the big five off on the fingers of one hand.

_::Ramones::_

_::Stooges::_

_::Clash::_

_::Pistols::_

_::New York bloody Dolls::_

All late 70s. Frowned, and rubbed a finger along the length of his nose thoughtfully. OK. 35, maybe. But not 40 yet. No way. His feet pushed onwards, and after a minute or two he started to hum again. Just because it was...uplifting. Carried the fast easy rhythm to his feet, and just went with it.

It seemed like a whole day he walked. An ocean of dirt and pebble and harsh grey scrub never diminishing, always stretching on. Sometimes he wondered if maybe he was on a treadmill, the same ribbon of dirt constantly revolving under his ceaseless feet. But then he'd pass a rock shaped like a hunched over Dutch woman or notice a particularly phallic saguaro, and he'd know that there was still more to come. Only the sun never changed, although its path across the sky eventually brought it lower and directly into combat with his eyes. He found himself squinting almost constantly, keeping his gaze directed at his feet, so it was with a stir of surprise that he eventually noticed the shape moving far off in the distance.

Low to the ground, it was just a smear of red, seeming to hover several feet about the desert's surface. Its colour slid - blending into the air - making its outline amorphous, a scarlet disc skimming at incredible speed, and it was only when his straining ears finally caught the faint familiar roar that he allowed himself to finally believe.

Oh thank fuck.

And break into that run he'd been promising himself.

"You break down?"

The truck's cab was fabulously cool, the soft thrum of the air-conditioning like the sound of some exotic insect. He craned his neck to one side, and let the sweet current just bathe his skin, before he even tried to speak. Blinked. Blinked again, slower. Made sure his eyeballs understood just what a close call they'd had.

"Uh...yeah."

It seemed like the truth anyway. The most likely scenario, and he tried to visualise the car he must have been driving, the accident that had scrambled his brain.

"Yeah, just...back aways."

And attempted a grateful smile,

"Glad you came along when you did."

The guy was a huge fleshpot of a man, massive wiry sideburns and a face that looked like someone had been strip-mining it. He grunted, mashed big meaty fingers around his steering wheel.

"British."

The word was spoken gruffly, matter-of-fact, and it took a good long moment before the implication of it sunk in.

"British? What...I'm British?"

And he listened to that word on his tongue, batted the whole idea back and forth for all of a millisecond.

"Yeah. British."

Paused, frowning.

_::Really?::_

"Yes. Sorry about that."

A smirk, and another kind of snarling grunt that might pass for a laugh, and just the merest mean-ass darted glance sideways. Fingers mashed down on the steering column again.

"Your Daddy's fault, boy. Not yours"

Another snort, and then silence.

Outside the desert skimmed by, its power neutralised by the mighty force of refrigeration, and he studied it abstractly. So fucking barren. Why on earth would he have chosen - blinked - trying to reach for it again, make the memory tangible, but it wouldn't come. Sliding with the dust, out and away over the miles of arid dirt that surrounded him.

Unable to stop himself, he yawned. Covered his mouth with a hand.

"Truck-stop up ahead, 'bout 15k. Drop you there."

It wasn't a question, but he nodded anyway.

"You like Tammy Wynette?"

He eyes slid over to meet those of his saviour's, felt his expression obediently arrange itself into a blank emotionless mask.

"Can't say I ever met the lady."

A small, easy shrug.

"But you're driving mate. Play what you like."

Brakes barking, the rig curled to a standstill in the vast dustbowl of the truck-stop, and he had only a moment to vocalise another lukewarm thank you before his companion was turning away. Fingers already reaching down for the volume control. Watching the smoking silver and black hulk roar off down to the next junction, he scuffed a toe gently in the dust before pushing a hand into his back pocket again. Glanced over at the yellow-lit windows of the nearby diner.

No money.

Fucking miles from anywhere.

Sighed soft and low as he realised that, in fact, his situation hadn't actually improved much beyond the whole death by dehydration scenario. Now he'd just do it slower. And all for want of a plate of buffalo wings.

The music inside was lower but still more of the same; selections from The Greatest Hick White-Trash Album In The World Ever. Took in the suspended ceiling, flaking paint work, cracked counter top and the signed photograph of Kenny Rogers behind it in one bone-tired and largely unemotional glance. Slid onto a stool and rested his elbows between the napkin holders and the maple syrup.

The waitress had a figure like an unruly mattress, but seemed inoffensive enough. A slight smile in his direction, and she left off cleaning out the coffee machine, wiped her hands on her apron and walked on over.

"What can I get you?"

_::short stack, four sides of bacon, sausage, three eggs, five rounds of toast::_

"Just a glass of water."

_::with bacon and cheese::_

And she didn't even blink, just smiled - easy, like he liked his eggs - went over and filled him a good tall glass with plenty of ice. Flicked over the counter with the edge of her cloth, and then turned away and silently went back to her filters.

It wasn't that he wanted to talk. He didn't crave company, but the silence inside him was so complete - it was odd. A little unsettling. And maybe more so because it felt unfamiliar, like he wasn't at all used to the quiet. Every thought was like a word written on clean white paper, with no point of reference either in front or behind. His throat worked, dry and thick, and he lifted the glass and poured water down it. Wished it was beer.

A TV set flickered to life above his head, a woman's face in close-up - smiling, and his eyes drifted to it. Stuck. Just adverts at first; some miraculous bollocks that made your windows sparkle like game show host's teeth, and then back to the news; a bronzed man looking down the lens with a suitably bland expression. The guy's mouth worked silently with the sound down, eyes conveying nothing but apathy as an inset shot of a traffic-accident slid in behind, and swallowing the last of his water he looked around for the rest room.

A last parting glance at the T.V, and he saw the accident scene dissolve to be replaced by the woman anchor's face. Another shot, this time a helicopter view of a disaster. A vast crater in the earth, miles across. Hundreds of houses and buildings faintly visible through the haze of dust and smoke. A scene of almost epic destruction.

He blinked. Managed to stop his hand this time before it got to his pocket.

_::Sunnydale, California::_

A face coated with dust pushed towards a microphone. Stuttering lips, tear-tracks. A name below: Mrs C. Symonds, Sunnydale Resident, and then back to the long aerial tracking shot, what could have been a white church spire crumbling like a toy.

"Terrible thing."

The waitresses voice had a Southern twang to it. She leant forward to get a better view from behind the counter, stared at the screen with a deep frown, clicked her tongue.

"All those poor people."

Glanced over at him with worn denim eyes.

"They say it was mine-shafts. All the old shafts just waiting to collapse. Could have gone any time."

He stared back at her and after a moment or two she nodded, rested a heavy hand on one hip.

"You need anything else?"

"Just the toilet."

"Out back."

Reached under the counter and tossed him a key, then turned back to the TV and twisted up the volume.

"...and emergency services. Fatalities are still being calculated, but estimates are that over five hun..."

The door closed with a snap behind him, cutting off the sound, and he stood. Warm, dry air bathing him as a fiery desert sun slid into the ice-blue skyline.

Sighed.

_::Fuck it.::_

Wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and, for about the hundredth time that day, longed desperately for a cigarette.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

A sudden rough jerk brought his jaw up with a snap and he awoke, tasted fresh blood in his mouth.

It was dark, and there was a deathly stiffness in his joints brought on by the cold. A moment or two passed before he could make any sense of anything, and then he rolled under the sheet of tarpaulin he'd dragged over himself, twisting his body up into a hunched sitting position. Pulled his legs in, hugged them. The deafening roar of the truck's engine had finally lulled him to sleep, albeit a numbing, brain-jarring kind of sleep, and for a while he'd slipped into a strange kind of semi-consciousness. He rubbed his neck muscles hard with one hand, stretched out the painful kinks. Fuck. If this was what being rested felt like, he'd have been better off staying awake all night.

Ripping out from under him, the I-15 stretched out - a grey strip lit faintly now as the sun threatened the horizon with white. Either side the desert lay silent, blue and cold, and he squinted at it in the morning light, digging out the sand from the corners of his eyes. He didn't have a watch of course. A watch would have been a clue, something that might have told him a little about the man he was, had been. Pulled his head down between his knees, pushed up under the base of his skull and dug his fingertips in, coaxed his scalp slowly back to life.

It was early, he thought maybe 5.00, 5.30 am. He knew for a fact that it had been well after two when he'd finally found someone to give him a ride to the nearest town. The guy had a flatbed Toyota and three fucking massive German Shepherds, but had graciously consented to let him ride in back, providing 'he didn't mess with nothing'. Now, looking around at the tangle of old car parts, rope ends and chewed plastic containers in the rear of the thing, his passenger was a little confused by the request. Shrugged, lifting a rusty exhaust pipe. Weird what some blokes considered precious.

On the left a highway sign flashed by, and he only had time to glimpse the one name - Barstow - before it was gone again, disappearing into desert mist. It had a somewhat familiar sound and, closing his eyes for a moment and visualising, he found he had a good idea of where he was. A clear internal map that zoomed in on request, and although he couldn't say exactly how or why, he knew with a sudden dim certainty that he had been here before. This exact same route in fact, and just to prove his own point, opened his eyes a split second before another larger sign hove into view over his shoulder, already mouthing the words on it.

_::Calico Ghost Town::_

So he must know the road well, and letting himself drift - deliberately not focusing on details, he found he knew other stuff too. Like that Barstow was a big dead dustbowl of a place. 30 odd square miles of yellow-brown nothing; just train tracks and ghost towns and an economy that hadn't moved a muscle since the goldrush. A couple of blocks north of Main Street there was a steakhouse called the 'Idle Spurs' that, despite all appearances to the contrary, served a half decent rib-eye. He blinked twice rapidly, seeing the big lame-ass cartwheel sign hung outside and then, for some inexplicable reason, also remembered that near it there was an ice-cream place called 'Fosters'. Made their own triple mint choc-chip, and the stuff tasted like fucking ambrosia. But that was all. Nothing more. He shook his head.

Jesus.

His brain was just chock full of useless crap. Now if only he could just figure out a way to lever his own name out of there, his zip code, he'd be home free.

The flatbed's engine climbed down from a roar to a throaty snarl, as the driver finally entered city limits. Seeing four sets of beady eyes checking him out in the rear-view mirror, he mimed to the driver as they neared the centre, indicating that he could let him out anywhere. The Toyota barrelled to a standstill, Dog-guy gunned the engine impatiently as he climbed down, carefully picking his way around the truck's seemingly precious cargo.

_::S'ok Fido. Not touching any of your shit.::_

A curt nod and the truck sped off, leaving him choking on exhaust fumes. He stretched, cracked his neck,

"Prick."

and stepped gingerly up onto the sidewalk.

A clock in a nearby window told the time as 6.00 am, although he'd pretty much worked that one out for himself by now. About seven, maybe eight people on Main Street, a few lights on, minimal traffic; the soft familiar sounds of a city making itself ready for a new day. The air was clear and light, still cool, and wrapping his arms around himself he started to walk up the road. Glanced in the window of the bank to see the date blinking: May 22nd, and wondered if he should feel anything about that. Was today special for any reason?

_::May 22nd, 1455: Henry VI was defeated by the Yorkists. Start of The War of the Roses:.:_

Fuck, now that was just...weird. He shook his head grasping for more, but again his brain just refused to cooperate with him; the information inside only released to him in tiny useless chunks, and without any discernible pattern. He grunted. Rubbed his eyes and stared at the clock again, daring it to unlock something else. The LED glowed redly back at him for a minute or more, but there was nothing else and he grumbled softly to himself. No idea what the bloody 'War Of The Roses' was even about.

Fucking stupid brain.

Without warning his stomach growled audibly, and hearing it he suddenly remembered the hunger he'd been subduing for the last eight hours. Christ, he hadn't eaten a single thing since he'd woken up yesterday, and god knows how long before that. Probably the only things preventing his stomach lining from completely dissolving were a pint of ice-water and the two sticks of Juicy Fruit he'd cadged off the truck-stop waitress. He grimaced again, pushing a fist into his gut to dull the pain. Surely there had to be somewhere a man with no memory or money could get something to eat around here?

The thought had barely entered his head when, drifting on the air, the scent of frying bacon suddenly transfixed him. A few hundred yards further up the street a small old-fashioned diner was already wide awake, its open door sending all kinds of tempting aromas out into the morning air, and helplessly following the almost palpable flavours he walked slowly towards it. Despite the early hour there was a busy chatter of voices, and drawing closer he saw that at least six people were already sitting down to breakfast inside. Three men in dusty grey overalls sat up at the counter gabbing noisily with the cook, while in front of the plate-glass window an old man was hunched over a stack of pancakes, his eyes fixed on the TV set behind them. He tried not to drool at the sight and smell of so much good food, but suddenly it felt like he hadn't eaten for a century and, taking a step or two inside he glanced up at the menu board, hopelessly feeling around inside his pockets.

His fingers closed around the metal amulet again and he frowned, pushed it back down. It still wasn't telling him anything. Like his brain, its secret was locked tight, inaccessible to him - at least for now. But maybe, it would come to him soon. He just close his eyes and know it.

_::Yeah, just like the bleeding Battle of ... ::_

When he looked up again, the cook was staring back at him.

"Getcha something?"

And just like that, he decided. A man with no name still had to eat didn't he? And a man like that, with no money and no means of getting any, certainly couldn't be blamed for just trying to avoid starvation. Involuntarily, he licked his lips and took a quick glance up the counter towards the three workmen.

"Is that the ah...Early Bird Special?"

An easy nod, and the cook was scribbling it down on his pad, turning back to the stove.

"You want coffee with that?"

He blinked. Opened his mouth, and then shut it again as he saw a huge slab of bacon hit the griddle with a hiss.

"No. Thank you."

Frowned,

"Could I have a really big glass of milk though?"

For all he knew, the breakfast was probably the best he'd ever eaten and, wiping his plate clean with his last piece of bread, he told himself that no matter what the consequences it had been worth it. The ache in his stomach was long since forgotten, thanks to the five eggs and countless rashers of bacon he'd warmly smothered it with. Four generously buttered rounds of toast had followed, chased by several quarts of cold milk, and it was only on the almost aggressive insistence of Phil The Fry Cook that he'd managed to force a slice of peach pie in on top of it all.

"My Mom makes it. Her own peaches."

And his mouth full of it, he could only nod back.

"S'ver g...d!"

He seemed a really nice guy though, and somewhere deep inside he couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at conning an honest hardworking stiff, like he supposed he himself was, out of hard earned money. Watching him grinning at the customers as he wiped his cloth up to his end of the counter again, he cleared his throat and tried to give him the friendliest and most apologetic smile he could muster.

"You can tell your Mum from me she's a bloody genius."

The cook's face split with a proud grin as he tore off the check, slid it across to him.

"But ah...Phil, mate? I'm sorry. I can't pay for this."

A stunned silence greeted him, and it seemed like a full minute passed before anyone spoke. The old man by the window rattled his fork down on an empty plate, half stood up.

"You want me to go get Claire, Phil?"

The cook's eyes flickered over to meet the old man's.

"Just stay right there, Andy. I got this."

Phil's gaze slid back to fix him in place again, all traces of friendliness now completely gone.

"You're saying you don't have the money to pay for this?"

Determinedly, he tried to think about how good all that food felt sitting snugly in his belly.

"I don't have any. Sorry."

Sighing, the man clenched his jaw, all ten fingers gripping the edge of the countertop in front of him.

"Mister, either you pay for what you ate or I call the cops. Which is it?"

The Cops.

Of course the Police would want to know his name. His address, next of kin; answers to all the questions he didn't have any for, and when he couldn't answer them, what then? There had to be some way they could find that stuff out; his fingerprints, test his DNA, scan his retinas, forensic shit like that! They'd probably have a database or something, type a description in and his name would pop right on out. Thinking of it he almost broke into a grin, almost sighed out loud with relief. Wondered why on earth he hadn't thought of it before.

"Go ahead and call 'em."

He was a person missing a life. Stood to reason that someone's life had to be missing him.


	3. Barstow

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

It was a cliché, the part of him that remembered that kind of stuff knew that. Also that there should be donuts. The pink, iced kind with the sprinkles, spilling out in a slovenly fashion from a dented Krispy Kreme carton. Here though, there was none of that. Officer Carol Fredrick's workspace was a model of organised efficiency; her stapler and ruler at neat ninety degree angles to her blotter and notebook, her pens colour-coded, her telephone sanitised. Hell, even Carol herself seemed to exude a faint, pleasant aroma of Lysol.

"So..."

Her ball-point, carefully selected no doubt for its deep-blue sombre hue, tapped out a brusque staccato rhythm.

"This memory loss. Is it something that happened suddenly? Or have there been similar episodes in the past?"

Briefly he considered the question, his brow creasing in a slight frown before he answered her.

"Hard to say really."

Their eyes met and he noticed that hers were the exact colour of maple syrup. She was frowning a little too, empathetically. Smiled with a slight flush of embarrassment and gave a tiny awkward little laugh.

"Oh jeez, of course. Sorry!"

Her pen made the tiniest sound as she wrote, like a beetle walking, but all his senses felt riveted to it. The words curved and twisted as she drew the line out, filling one neat horizontal box after another with her perfectly even hand. Even upside down he could make out the words:

_...possibly due to amnesia, but otherwise seems entirely..._

"What's that word?"

Her eyes refocused on his, another small awkward smile as she realised what he was doing, before she followed his pointing fingertip.

"...cognisant?"

"Oh. Right."

That was fair. Another glance to reassure herself that he was in agreement and she continued, looping and forming the letters that would make up her report. The clock sitting between them had a loud overzealous tick and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore it, watched the two flies circling the light fitting instead; their soft heavy drone making him think of decay and rot. Of food gone bad and deserted stifling rooms. Wondered why. Wondered whether that was what everyone thought of when they heard a fly.

Officer Fredrick's pen made a full stop, very decisively, and his attention was drawn back. Her last sentence was unclear.

"So basically, what I think we should do now is...make some...ah...further enquiries."

A strand of hair had worked its way free from the elasticated band she had strained it back into, and as she spoke it fell slowly forward, snaking sinuously down from behind one ear. Watching her expression, he could see she had become aware of it almost immediately but was struggling against the need to deal with it.

"In these kind of situations I think it's pretty normal for a person to feel...a little disorientated and to act oddly, so I'm certainly not going to hold the incident this morning against you. And I'm certain no charges will be filed..."

A half inch more, and he was sure the tickle at her jaw line must be almost unbearable by now.

"I'm sure once Phil and Claire know what happened, they'll be happy enough to forget about the whole thing."

God, how could she stand it? Just watching the damn thing made his own face itch. He frowned again and looked away, studied his fingernails as he listened to her pleasant warm, white-bread tone continue her litany.

"All we can really do is hope that someone somewhere has filed a missing person's report with the authorities, because without that we're basically just feeling in the dark, if you get my meaning. At the moment there doesn't seem to be anything fitting your description, but we should know more in a few hours when the officer from County comes..."

Her voice hitched suddenly in the middle and he glanced up, saw her reaching into her desk drawer. She nodded at him with a slightly weary, embarrassed air as she palmed an inhaler, rolled her eyes and took a deep measured pull from it. Her lungs rasped drily, and he waited for a moment for her to collect herself again. The clock ticked. Flies, and the dull distant roar of the air-conditioning.

He wasn't sure of course, but this might very well be his first time in a police station. There was a unique, almost olfactory tension in the air, and an unfamiliarity of atmosphere that he felt sure he would remember if he'd experienced it ever before. As well as which, it seemed as if his face was unknown to the local PD, so if he had once been a career criminal at least that meant he'd been a careful one. Carol Fredrick's search had been a short but extremely efficient one, and he supposed that her inability to find any record of his existence so far had probably frustrated her more than it had him. Despite his earlier optimism, he hadn't expected an instant solution to his predicament, although his spirits did flag a little at the realisation that no one was missing him. At least no one who felt his absence worth reporting yet.

"Sorry about that."

Officer Fredrick took another deep breath, and finally pushing that strand of hair back, secured it.

"So...when the officer from County comes on duty I'll be able to find out a little more. Until then I suggest you maybe just make yourself comfortable in our waiting area, and I can arrange for the doctor to come see you in a little while."

She was a nice woman, he could tell that. Kindness was evident in her every movement, even in the careful, measured way she sipped coffee from her Styrofoam cup. She was obviously used to dealing with the confused and chaotic, and it occurred to him that that's exactly what he was. Confused and chaotic; a brain that had simply short-circuited.

"Is there anything else you'd like to ask me?"

Her eyes were maple syrup, warm and full of sympathy. Idly, he considered the idea of kissing her. She thought he was crazy anyway, and her lips were very pretty even if her face was long and a little equine. Dismissed it.

"So I just...wait?"

A fly made a slow, noisy pass of his ear and he swatted it away irritably. A few desks away, a balding cop at a typewriter tracked its erratic movement with sudden interest, although his fingers never left the keys.

"Would you prefer to come back later?"

The phone on her desk trilled insistently, and he stared down at it. Her hand didn't move though, just rested calmly and neatly next to the other on top of her report.

"I could tell Dr. Hunter you'll be in to see him around noon? How'd that be?"

Trill, harsh ring of the phone and still she didn't even register it, just looked back into his eyes with her steadier than steady gaze and small summer-warm smile. He could feel a tick beginning in his left eye, the very corner of it, a tiny insistent jumping of the muscle, synchronous with the sound.

"Noon. That's fine. I'll be here."

He stood up and she reached for the receiver at last, lifting it and covering the mouthpiece briefly.

"I'll tell him you'll be waiting downstairs, at the front desk."

Smiled again, because she knew damn well he wouldn't be.

"Good luck. I hope everything works out for you!"

Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn't. He'd decide later if he even wanted it to, or what everything could be. Right now the sun was high in the sky, and he was bone-tired and thirsty from a night without sleep and a morning answering question after inane question, trying to find answers in a brain that felt like one big empty, echoing room. Unwrapping his last stick of gum one, he folded it into his mouth and forced himself to think of something else, concentrate on something he did know.

The name came back to him again, and what was that? The name of a place here in Barstow that he had remembered, that he'd been to at least once, had to have because of the memory of that ice-cream. The bright mint green scoops that he could almost picture, could definitely still recall the texture and flavour of. Tipped his head to one side, and when the picture wouldn't clear up enough for him, touched the arm of a passing stranger.

"Sorry mate, Fosters? Do you know where that is?"

It looked unremarkable enough. A torn, striped awning that had probably once been considered quite posh and the name picked out on the plate glass in that fancy, scrolling hand that places like this always seemed to favour: Fosters Ice-Cream Parlour.

Parlour.

His memory of what that was seemed to dovetail a little oddly with the idea of this rather shabby little snack bar, and he half smiled at the thought of what a parlour really was, really should be. A place that smelt of beeswax and old tea-leaves. Dark, heavy furniture and a window hung with deep green curtains. Just for Sundays, not weekdays.

He blinked, surprised at the clarity of the image. Hmmm. Dismissed it.

Not this anyway. Shiny white and chrome and pictures of movie stars, red and white checked tile and cracked linoleum. Two overly large pre-teenage girls, wearing matching Calico Ghost Town baseball caps and t-shirts, sat facing each other in a booth, spooning into the biggest damn sundaes he knew the place had to be capable of making. He tried not to stare but one of them caught him anyway, shot him a sharp practised glance of hatred before whispering something to her friend. He turned away, but not before she had darted him a similar glare; like it was any of his business what they clogged their arteries with.

Behind the counter a tall dark-haired girl stood off to one side, speaking on the telephone. Her head was pulled in close to the receiver and he caught a low husky laugh as she twisted the cord between her fingertips. Without meaning to, he caught a word or two of her conversation,

"Well, you better be wearing them when I get home...that's all I can say..."

And then another laugh. His eyes drifted around, noting the clean orderliness of the little kitchen area to the back, the neat row of sundae glasses on the shelf behind her. Up high, toward the ceiling fan, a faded picture of the shop sign outside and the awning - bright and shiny new - hung like a forgotten memory. Next to it, another in which an old man with a moustache held up an enormous dessert, grinning like a madman. The frame was old and a little chipped, but the glass was free of dust; the old bloke must still be alive.

"That's my Grandpap."

The girl's voice startled him, he hadn't heard her hang up the phone or seen her step any closer but suddenly there she was at his elbow, resting her hip against her side of the counter. She squinted, pushed chocolate-brown bangs out of her eyes, looking up.

"And that's my Mom in the bassinet in the next one. Her and Grammy Foster. She's dead now though. Died last Spring."

He opened his mouth a little and then shut it again, unsure of how to answer that one, glanced at her to make sure. Her nose crinkled,

"Ah, she's not missed. Sour as vinegar, and rich as damn Midas."

Nodded at the next one, a small white frame crowded with people.

"That's us at the wake, the whole clan. First damn family party she didn't spoil with all her damn moaning and whining."

Grinned warmly at him; freckles and white, white teeth.

"Funny, we kind of missed it though!"

He laughed, and it felt strange to. Realised that it was his first, the first he remembered anyway. Smiled back at her gratefully, feeling the easy familiarity she wore warm him like the sun.

"Often the way with the grumpy ones. They're always the most entertaining."

Her eyes glowed, and she leant back, shook long straight dark hair off her shoulders.

"Yeah, she sure was that! Momma used to say she could take paint off a fence just by looking at it."

She narrowed her eyes to slits, imitating the old woman's gimlet glare and then waved her hand and gave a loud, sweet laugh. The sound of it alone made him want to join in, pull up a chair and bathe in her light. She batted her eyelids, joking with him.

"Ah, I shouldn't really. She was good to me. Left me enough to buy my place, put on an extra room for Tommy."

"Tommy?"

Gave her head a little forgetful shake as if in apology, nodding back toward the phone.

"That's my little boy. He's two now."

She smiled, eyes suddenly dreamy and unfocused, with the special glow reserved only for mothers talking of their babies.

"He's growing so fast though. Going to need someplace bigger soon, maybe with a garden."

She laughed again at the thought of a garden, that she could have one of her very own, reached over to take the scoop out of the jug of water she had it resting it and turned back to him.

"So what'll it be? Mint chocolate chip, right?"

And the words didn't even register for a moment, didn't impact like they should have done. Didn't even make him start and stutter like the next ones she said did. The words she said with a friendly casual questioning air; one hand digging deep into the soft, minty cool of that delicious ice-cream he'd felt certain he could recall the exact flavour of, the exact texture.

"Hey, and tell me...how's Dawn doing?"

Grinned again, slipped the ice-cream expertly out of the scoop and into his glass. Pushed it forward across the counter. Winked and slid him a spoon.

"Will you tell her I said hi?"

Dawn.

It was a plain name. Just one syllable. And the way she spoke it, as if it were nothing at all made its effect on him all the more miraculous. If his mind really were that empty windowless room then the sound of that name was like the opening of a door, the spilling of warm light into shadow, sending dust motes spiralling to life. And even stunned as he was, the irony of the simple, single word was not completely lost on him.

"Dawn?"

The girl turned, surprise and a touch of uncertainty suddenly, guilty finger caught mid-lick. Licked it clean and frowned.

"Yeah? Your sister? Right?"

She gave a small shrug,

"I wouldn't remember except for I still have that goofy little note she wrote me stuck on the corner of my vanity."

He remembered to breathe at last, took several just to be on the safe side, because she was looking at him a little oddly now, her head cocked slightly to one side.

"You OK? You seem a little shaken up?"

And he nodded, remembered how to do that as well. Tried to compose his expression somehow, make his eyes stop doing that thing that was obviously convincing her that he was a total nut job. Tried to think, tried to imagine what he might say to someone who asked after his sister in a reality where he actually had one, or knew even the slightest trivial fucking detail of his own life at all.

"Uh..."

OK. Uh was good. Noncommittal and non-threatening at least. Now maybe some other words, a verb, couple of nouns perhaps. Her eyes were still wary, unsure of him and suddenly he realised that if he didn't immediately put her at ease those might very well be that last words he got out of her. He frowned and somehow, fuck knows how, he managed to take hold of that spoon his fingers had been hovering over for the longest sixty seconds ever and lift it. The small gesture seemed to be enough and he saw her shoulders relax, a smile appearing again as she watched his apparent indecision over where to begin. Slid the spoon in, took a tiny sliver of the dessert from the side and moved it to his lips, slowly pushed it inside. A moment, and then he even remembered to chew.

Watching him, his new friend smiled, laughed warm and easy.

"You'd forgotten how good it tastes, right? Hits you right down there in the taste buds!"

And that was pretty funny, because then he wanted to tell her; No. That through some entirely implausible quirk of fate he'd actually forgotten every other detail of his life except that one tiny sliver of information, and the date of a completely meaningless English battle. That, until she spoken that name to him he'd had no conception of ever having had either a sister, brother, mother or great bloody uncle Harry. And on top of which he had know idea who in hell she was or how she'd come to know the first thing about him or his life, and what did she think she was doing anyway dropping a name like 'Dawn' on him - fifty ton weight out of a clear blue sky - without even an introduction, explanation or an excuse me, and then just sauntering back on out to the kitchen to wash her ice cream scoop up?

The tap ran and she hummed softly to herself, and while he sat there still desperately trying to formulate some non-threatening line of questioning, she started to obliterate his world.

"S'funny you coming in today really, 'cause only yesterday I was telling my friend Joey about that night."

She gave a a little rueful laugh, tossed a look at him.

"Though maybe it isn't 'xactly a coincidence" a shake of her head, "I mean I must have told that story a million times to pretty much everyone I know."

She finished washing up, and dried her hands on her apron, frowned.

"Not that any of them believe me though."

And she rolled her eyes at him,

"I mean who would right? Sometimes I think maybe I dreamt the whole thing up after one too many, you know?"

Her face looked much younger suddenly, a touch of doubt in her eyes. Reached a hand up to fuss with her hair, pulled out a grip and studied it.

"But then I see your sis's note sticking there, and I know it happened."

And then the chin came up, and she was strong again, calm.

"So it doesn't matter that everyone thinks I'm a kook, does it?"

She smiled small and hopeful at him, and he finally gave up trying to look casual, like everything she'd just said made perfect sense, planted both his elbows on the countertop in front of her and he told her that no, it didn't matter a bit. That people thought he was crazy every time he told the story too, and that the memory she had of that night - with him and his sister Dawn - was probably just as it had been, but maybe if she were just to tell him exactly what she remembered, perhaps it would help them both to understand.

Her eyes were wide and molasses brown, staring back at him as he spoke. Her skin smelt of sunshine and vanilla as she darted a glance over at the two sundaes by the window, and then pulled in close to him.

"O.K. It was a Saturday night. I always remember that because Poppy had just been in to get the day's take and he only does that late Saturdays."

She screwed up her nose,

"OK, so it must have been just after ten then. I was out back stacking up the washer 'cause we'd been busy all day, being school holidays an' all. Lissa was up front serving still, even though we should have been closing up ar..."

"Lissa?"

He didn't want to stop her, but every detail suddenly seemed vitally important.

"Lissa? My cousin? Remember? Great big curvy redhead? You act like you're making the moves on her every time you're in here? You always make some dumb joke about our names rhyming?"

She double blinked at his confusion, like; duh?

"Mel-lissa? Ma-rissa?"

And gave a short derisive snort of laughter,

"Our Mom's had this big thing about it making us like sisters. My other cousin's called Roxy though. Maybe my Aunt Peg couldn't think of anything else that rhymed."

Marissa. Her name was Marissa, so at least that was one more awkward pause in conversation he could avoid. Played with the name and turned it round in his mind. Marissa. Rissa. It didn't have the same resonance as Dawn certainly, although watching her pretty animated face he felt sure that he would never forget this young woman's name again.

"Then what?"

Her eyes move unconsciously to the doorway behind him,

"Then the bell goes, and in you both come."

And without knowing why he found himself turning too.

Outside the day was brighter that bright, azure and sand-red, sidewalk simmering in the noonday heat, but suddenly he could almost see it. A purple sky, shading to dusk, the soft rasping of cicadas and then, from nowhere, the doorhandle turning, the harsh metallic jangle as they entered.

He breathed out. Tried to see himself.

"What was I wearing?"

Rissa gave a loud barking laugh, like he'd just made the biggest funny he could. Raised an eyebrow at him and when he didn't rise to it, frowned.

"Ah...the same thing you're wearing every single time you've come in here for the last five, six years? Same thing you're wearing right now?"

She grinned like she knew she was being a smartass, then tilted her head to one side, peering over the counter suddenly.

"Although I can't believe you're missing your coat today."

Wrinkled her nose at him,

"What's with that?"

Shrugging, he decided to skip over that one, although the idea of a long coat did seem kind of appealing. Big, black, billowy thing maybe, something with a bit of pounce and swagger. Snapped out of it, tried a different line instead.

"And Dawn? Was she..."

He stopped, suddenly stumped with wanting to ask her a million things at once. Not least of all where? Where is she? That note, is there a number? An address? Do you know where she lives, where I live? Is she tall, short? Thin? Pretty and smart? Is she funny? Does she make people laugh? Realised that his hands had made themselves into fists and with a conscious effort relaxed them, tried to think of just the right thing to ask.

"Does she look like me?"

Rissa's expression showed confusion, amusement.

"Do I think...she looks like you?"

Frowned and looked away to the right, and if he could only see the face that she was seeing now as she silently conjured Dawn from her memory. His phantom sister, his lifeline. Shook her head finally, decisively, as she looked at him,

"No, she doesn't at all," and as she said it, seemed to make a connection, "But then maybe you have different daddies right? What with her being so much younger I mean."

She gave him a warm smile,

"She sure looks up to you though. You can see that."

The door jangled noisily and an elderly couple entered, towing a small dog. Rissa's face altered instantly she saw them, became more adult, and she dropped him a rueful nod as she went to them. First the polite reminder; Dixie back outside please, and then the friendly 'ok folks, what can I getcha?' The shape of her back as she bent down below the counter seems such a familiar sight, he found himself wondering just how many times he'd been in here before, that she should know him by sight, know his flavour. That had to mean that his home wasn't far from here didn't it? Less than a day's drive maybe, not far if he'd brought a kid along for the ride.

Customers dealt with, Rissa moved back along the counter toward him, cleaning up as she went, and he half-smiled as he realised that she was flirting with him a little, taking her time coming back to pick up their conversation. Reaching him she dropped her chin down on her hands, rested her elbows just an inch or so away and gave him that hot fudge smile again, the same one she'd probably given him every other time he'd ever walked in here.

"So where were we? You were coming in right? Ok..."

She rolled her eyes, crinkling up her nose again just because she knew how damn cute it was, and tried to see it for him.

"You asked for mint choc-chip like always and you're all surprised when I remember 'cause I think it'd been about a year maybe since the last time you'd been in, but I told you I never forget a face and a flavour, never, 'cause I don't! Only this time you're not alone and you buy...wait...you buy strawberry swirl for Dawn even though first of all she thinks she wants...the rum and raisin."

She grins at him wide-eyed as she says it, because how about that? That she remembers the flavour he bought for his kid sister as well?

"Then you both go sit down..."

She looks around and then points to the two end stools,

"...over there, and we're all chatting and getting on fine like always, and then we hear the bikes."

And there's no noise in the little shop now except the mumbling of the two old dears in the corner and the drone of some country song from the radio, but now he remembers. Hears the sound just like it was, soft roar building to a deafening full-throated snarl, and knows in his gut that even though a bike is a bike that that noise means something bad is about to happen, and that his...that Dawn is in danger here and that he should never have brought her.

"Four of them."

He says it without even realising his lips have moved, but Rissa nods so he knows he must have spoken.

"Just bikers I think, and they're trouble enough. But these ones..."

She shudders, and now he can he can see their faces through the darkened plate glass, hear the wood splinter off the door jamb as they kick it inwards. Feels his fingers tighten against the edge of the countertop as he turns to look at them, and calm as you like stares into four of the meanest faces he thinks he's ever seen. Scars and tattoos and chains where no sane man would ever think to hang them, and a low, bone-chilling laughter that sends both girls scurrying back towards the kitchen.

"You were pregnant."

And he sees her then, shorter hair and her face not quite the freckles and her belly standing out a mile as her hand covers it, splayed fingers and eyes like a frightened rabbit.

"Yeah."

She rubs the same place, now smooth and flat,

"Almost ready to drop. Shouldn't even have been on that night but Lissa was on her own and it was only the washing," and a shake of her head, "She felt so bad after, but it wasn't her fault. I needed the extra money, besides..."

Her eyes strayed to the closed door,

"We never had trouble before, and no more since. And anyway..." and she reached out a hand, suddenly tentative, to touch the back of his own, "Could have been a whole lot worse if you hadn't been here."

She carries on talking then and he's still half listening of course, still catching the odd sentence here and there as the words just keep spilling out; garbled sometimes like she can hardly believe her own voice. Hears her say; 'I was so scared. Damn! Don't think I've ever been so damned scared my whole life', but he's not looking at her now. Head down, he's seeing it playing behind his eyes, single frames, jumping rusty at first like the projector's worn out, but then she'll say something else and it gets clearer, smoother, until it's spinning through him like silk. Sees his own fist as he draws it back, a young girl's voice calling for everyone to;

"'Get the hell out of here!'"

Rissa's face now, and then, jumping back and forth, her mouth slightly open as she tries to burrow into the wall somehow, get behind her cousin, anything.

"Oh Jesus, please! Please, don't. Don't let them hurt my baby."

And then it's only black and red and sharp, splintering and screaming, and he knows the light was broken because it's dark and he can feel the hot glass crunching under his palms as he hits the floor. Another voice. A name being called again and again, maybe someone's lost their dog or something. Then soft little hand on his cheek, a terrified hissing urgency.

"You've got to get up! Can you hear me? Get up! They've got the two girls and they're taking them out back."

And now he knows who it is, who's speaking, because the mix of fear and love and pain is unmistakable and overwhelming. She's his precious, his charge, and she's in danger here, he's put her in danger. But then it's all getting fuzzy and black again because she's worrying at him with her hands in the dark, dragging on his lapels.

"You've. Got. To. Get. Up!"

And then that name again, a sob and her lips next to his ear, sweet warm breath like raspberry jelly.

"They're going to kill them! You've got to stop it!"

He opens his eyes, and Rissa's stare back at him. There's a hint of pink under each of her eyes and for the first time since she started to speak he realises that she's holding his hand. Tight. Tight. Soft little mouth quirking, on the edge of tears as she tells him;

"You saved my life. You saved both our lives."

And he doesn't know how to answer that, even though he knows it's true. Just nods, half nods like he's only just waking up now. Sees the faces again as they turn out of the shadows cast by the dumpster, away from the two weakly struggling girls, mouths smeared with their blood, eyes glowing yellow in the dim light of the alley. Their teeth jagged, making wounds of their faces. Can't say the words because now his brain is telling him no, that this part can't be right. No such thing, and even if there were how could he say that to...

"They were vampires weren't they?"

And when he looks at her again he sees that she's pulled her hair right back, exposing her neck, to show him the marks, and her face is calm now. Her eyes are a million years older and a thousand miles away from that other girl's. She smiles and he's reminded of the Mona Lisa.

"You never said, either of you. But I'm not stupid. I know what monsters are," and lets the curtain fall back, covering herself. He starts, stops, opens his mouth again.

"I'm sorry. It's just..."

_::their bodies erupt into ash, sift away under his hands::_

"It's just...so hard to believe."

_::and he hears his own laugh, recognises it as his, but it's cold, different. Hears her laugh too, Dawn's, bright with relief, her hand slipping inside his::_

_"Wow! Four onto one! Pretty hot stuff! Just wait till I tell the others!"_

_"You're telling no one. Bloody skin me alive they would!"_

"You're telling me?!"

Rissa again, shaking her head,

"I always leave out that part. Only me and Lissa know it, and I think she's pretty much convinced herself she didn't see a thing."

Her hand had never left his the whole time, but now she squeezed it once gently and released him. Seemed to suddenly remember where she was, who she was, brushed down her apron and checked her watch, grimaced.

"Oh jeez. Where's Joey got to? I have to go pick up Tommy."

Blushed as she caught his eye,

"Sorry. I don't mean to be..." touched his finger gently, "It's good to see you again. I was starting to think you'd never come back in, and I never really got to say thank you properly. And I know Lissa would want me to thank you too. She'll be in later if you want to say hi."

He nodded, made as if to finish his ice-cream. Saw her reach under the counter for her bag, pull a few bills from her purse, and didn't even have time to protest before she was pushing them into his hand. She stepped back, refusing to let him return them, laughed at his annoyance.

"Hey! I'm not broke anymore, not by a long shot! And you look like you could do with it. Go get yourself a haircut, get those roots seen to or something! Don't like seeing you looking less than your usual big beautiful badass self!"

The door sounded and a slim tawny-haired girl slipped inside. Half scowling, Rissa tapped her watch at her impatiently before turning back to face him again.

"That's my cue, so I gotta go."

She grinned again, blushed, and then a sudden quick impulsive dart forward and soft feather-light lips brushed his own, pressed in closer and then were gone. He blinked and she gave another bright, startled laugh.

"Sorry! I just..."

Her cheeks flushed a deep coral under her tan,

"I promised myself that if you ever came back in here, I'd do that," she grinned, "and I always keep my promises."

She turned away and her bright yellow sun dress flowed out behind her, making him forget for a minute, the most important thing of all. Jumped to his feet and caught her just as she made it out the door.

"Rissa...sorry!"

She seemed a little startled at his using her name, and he dropped his hand from her arm, stepped back a pace. Frowned.

"Dawn's note, you said you still have it."

She nodded, puzzled, cocked her head at him.

"You want to see it?"

He swallowed, not wanting to ask but needing too.

"Is there...did she write a number on there? An address?"

Rissa's brow was creasing now, confused.

"No, like I said, just her being goofy and something about neither of you being in a hurry to ever visit Barstow again. It was with my things when Poppy came to get me from hospital." she shrugged, "I figured you'd been with her 'cause the nurse said a girl and a guy in black leather had left it."

He nodded. Of course. Stepped back to let her go again, watched her take a couple of paces and then turn back. A slight worried frown.

"She's OK is she? I mean...she wasn't home when it happened?"

He blinked, her meaning lost to him completely.

"When...what, sorry?"

"When that thing with the mine shafts happened?"

She cocked her head at him, frowned deeper and when he didn't answer, took a step back. Shaded her eyes.

"That thing that happened up there last week?" shook her head in confusion, "You do still live up in Sunnydale, right?"


	4. Lenwood

A tiny sound woke him, like the tearing of tissue paper, and his eyes snapped open into darkness. Ink thick and then the slow dissolve of black to grey, blue, and then the blurry outlines of the room. Heavy wooden dresser, coats on the back of a door and then his own shape, dimly naked legs wrapped in a tangle of sheets. Rubbing a hand through his hair he frowned at the realisation of where he was. Lenwood; a pitiful offshoot of the main town of Barstow. Rissa's front room, on a fold-out hastily made up into the world's most uncomfortable bed. He twisted, grimacing at the sound of the metal frame, and turned over onto his side.

It was better than a ditch, that he had to concede. Although a ditch would perhaps have been a little less complicated. A ditch wouldn't have necessitated dealing with the emotions of a doe-eyed and affection starved nineteen year old, with a fatherless son and the beginnings of a worrying crush on him. Wadding the pillow up beneath his head he sighed, flipped over on his back again and stared at the ceiling.

She was a sweet girl and generous but - and he had to keep reminding himself of this one - painfully young, and he'd felt his gut twist when she'd made him the offer, so tentative but so full of compassion as it was. Horrified that he had nowhere to go, no idea where his family was. Instinctively offering everything she had to the man they now both knew had saved her life, her kindness to him was like whisky to a drunk and he seemed to have no power to resist it. He didn't know if he had always been alone, he only knew that right now her affection, no matter how facile, was wonderfully comforting and real. The fact that, as it turned out, she didn't know his name either seemed irrelevant. He said it was Pete so that was what she called him.

Her tiny apartment Grammy Foster's money had bought was barely big enough for a midget, let alone a teenage girl and a growing child, but somehow Rissa had made it into a home. Her beaming, proud smile as he had told her so made her seem years older than she really was.

"It's not much, but I fixed it up pretty good didn't I? Made the curtains and the slipcovers all myself!"

She dropped her bag down on the floor, and gave him another big-eyed grin before turning back to the door.

"Make yourself at home. There's soda is the fridge and some cold pizza I think. I've got to go get Tommy. I'll just be five."

Gave him a friendly shove when she realised he was still standing in the doorway.

"Mi casa su casa, Pete."

And the brief touch of her fingertips on his arm left a warm imprint, four hot circles.

"Seriously. What's mine is yours."

And that was that. Her offer was certainly timely, because - let's face it - he had nowhere else to go, and if the price was a little guilt, a little helping of nervous sexual tension then he could handle it. He was a grown man after all, and she was just a kid. Albeit an attractive and patently fertile one. With breasts.

He turned on his side again, pulled his legs in and tried not to think too much about that. Thought about Dawn instead. Faceless Dawn with her soft, pleading voice and gentle hands. Goofy Dawn who still dotted her i's with little circles and abbreviated words to single letters.

 

_"Hope u don't think we're running out on you_

_but we really need to get home before dawn (ha!ha!)._

_I'd say we'll c u again soon but i don't think Barstows_

_top of r fave fun hangouts after tonite!_

_Hope u and Liss r both O.K and that the baby is 2._

_Asta La Vista,_

_Dawn x"_

 

She'd written the note on the back of some hospital note paper, torn off neatly through the middle to make sure her writing filled the sheet without leaving any white space; any big gaps that might have looked like awkward silence. Her signature curved up at both ends like a smile, and where the 'w' went down she'd looped it over to make a little 'x'. A kiss for a friend she'd barely met, but who she'd cared enough about to risk both their lives.

_::they're going to kill them, you've got to stop it::_

When Rissa had returned she'd laughed to find him still in almost the exact same position, a foot or two closer to the kitchen but still standing, hands still pushed firmly down into his pockets. Then laughed again as he'd been forced to move, shoved backwards by the sturdy insistent hands of her son. The little boy's face was perfectly round, a thick jumble of chestnut curls with dark eyes like an otter's. Looking down at him, he felt uncertain whether the emotion in them was curiosity or animosity.

The kid stared at him and he stared back.

" 'lo."

The greeting seemed a little combative, so he replied just as warily.

" 'lo yourself mate."

Brown eyes narrowed down to slits as he made fists, grabbing up the fabric of his jeans.

"I've been Gamma's"

"Have you now?"

A pause.

"Enjoy yourself did you?"

"We had cookies. And 'renge."

Rissa interrupted.

"Orange, sweetie."

"Yuh."

"Yes."

Stooping down his mom swept him up into capable arms, turning her face away from hands that grabbed stickily for her shiny hair.

"Noooo! Want to play with the Daddy!"

The blush that rose to her cheeks was almost painful to see, and her eyes darted away to the side apologetically.

"Sorry, I didn't...he calls everyone that. All men I mean. He thinks Daddy means man."

Pushed her face into his hair and kissed him fiercely, even as he flailed at her.

"Noooo! Down!"

"When you've had your bath, sweetpea. Now be a good boy or Pete won't want to stay for dinner."

The kid's mouth wavered, blobby crocodile tears as his head swivelled, eyes fixing on his. Swallowed hard.

"We having fish-sticks."

Rissa laughed,

"No we aren't! You ate 'em all up remember, pig-boy? I'll order Chinese OK?"

Tossed him back another grin as she headed for the bathroom, toting the boy on her hip.

"What the hell...it's a special occasion."

After dinner she'd made up the bed without asking him, and he'd helped her move Tommy's cot into her room out the back: "Just until you figure out what you're going to do." Together they'd sat up till late watching some old cop show she said she liked and then, after she'd put the kid to bed for the third time and final time, opened up a couple of beers. The TV meant there was no need for any more questions or polite conversation he didn't have the energy or the presence of mind to make, and at midnight she'd cleared her throat and said she had to go to bed. Although he wasn't completely sure, he thought he'd seen the merest hint of lustful hope in her face.

"There are...ah...clean towels in that closet if you want to go grab a shower. We'll probably be gone pretty early, so we'll try not to wake you."

Her eyes in the blue night glow of the TV looked tired, but she gave him the same bright white smile she'd been giving out all day.

"You should take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in. Watch some TV, there's a..."

a hand went out, gestured awkwardly,

"There's a video rental place down on the corner. Not much choice but some good action ones you might not have seen..."

Her eyes dropped to the floor before slowly making their way back up to his face again, and this time the look in them was unmistakable.

"Maybe if you're still here tomorrow night you could...come out with Liss and Gary and I? We usually go on over to the Roadhouse in Barstow on Fridays."

She shrugged,

"It's a dive but the beer's cheap, and they have karaoke. Sometimes this crazy old couple get up and do Sonny and Cher. It's a real scream."

The sentence hung in the air between them and he frowned, trying to think of the right thing to say as the silence lengthened. Rissa's hand came up to push back her fringe, and dropping one shoulder she gave him a look that seemed to hover somewhere between good humour and embarrassment.

"It's OK if you don't . Want to...I mean. I just..."

and another half-hearted shrug,

"I thought if you were, you know, alone...you might just prefer some company. That's all."

She breathed out gently, not quite a sigh and then turned and walked slowly back to her room. A minute, and then the soft night-time sound of drawers being opened and closed; teeth being softly brushed, and then the light went out and he was in darkness.

Staring at her door in the gloom now, he had to admit to feeling just the tiniest bit sorry to be on the other side. Tried to imagine what she looked like in there, all golden-tan and tangled limbs, sheets thrown to one side in the heat. Felt himself stir at the image and rolled again, thought of something else instead. Grammy Foster's toothless smile in that faded picture. Dawn's note. That metal disc.

He hadn't looked at it again all day, hadn't even thought to mention it to Officer Frederick. Rolled over to the edge of the sofa-bed and reached underneath for his jeans. It was still there in the back pocket, forced right down, and when he drew it out a little more black flaked off and stuck to his palm. In the cool blue darkness he turned it over slowly, noticing for the first time the ruined shape; like a many-pointed star gone supernova. Pressed into the centre gently and stopped when it gave a little, the tiniest hairline sound. Put it down on the bed instead in front of him, then crossed his legs and just looked at it.

He could imagine what it had once been like - although it wasn't a picture yet - but there was more than that. He could feel its connection to him. It wasn't anything he cared about, just a thing, but there was something - and he almost caught it then. Dragging like sea-washed sand at the edge of his memory.

Someone unseen reaching out, the heavy chain looping and spilling out of the confines of a small hand, his folding around it. And then nothing. An echoing emptiness like some vast cavern left by the passing of the tide. He struggled for the image again, tried to summon the owner of the hand, the owner of a voice he hadn't so much remembered as felt. A golden sound that pulled at him; harp-strings of pain and love and impossible longing. Closed his eyes and willed it to come back.

"Can't sleep?"

Rissa's voice was barely more than a whisper but he lurched back as if slapped. Her answering jerk away was painfully fearful, and he found himself almost immediately apologising, reaching to reassure her.

"Sorry...I...you just..."

She allowed herself to be caught, eyes still wide. Shook her head at him.

"No I'm...sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump. I thought you were awake is all."

Let his hand drop from her arm again before turning slowly to one side. A soft click and they were both illuminated by the low light of a lamp. She gave him an apologetic look, attempting to flatten down her bed-mussed hair a little, frowned.

"What were you doing? Meditating or something?"

He raised his eyebrows scornfully before realising that, in actual fact, that was pretty much exactly what he had been doing. He lifted the amulet up, unsure how much he wanted to share.

"It's this. I'm just trying to work out what it is. How I came by it. 'Spose I went into a bit of a trance."

Rissa's gaze skipped from his to the pendant in his fist, then back again. Smiled tentatively and held out her hand.

"What is it? Like an heirloom or something?"

Gently, she turned it over, dusted a fingertip over the surface.

"Is this like...hieroglyphics?"

"Where?"

Surprised, he started up before remembering he was naked. Twisted the bed sheet around his waist and took the thing back carefully from her, blew on it. More blackened sand and metal flakes dusted off, speckling the bed and reaching out she pointed out the faint, almost indecipherable markings he'd failed to notice.

"There."

Tilting it into the light he suddenly saw what she meant. Six or seven faint indentations that could have been characters of some kind, although of no alphabet he recognised. He squinted, tilted it again. Part of the first one looked a little like a horse, but that wasn't something he felt was worth sharing at present. Frowned and nodded, before gently placing it back on the bed.

For a moment they stood in silence, both staring at it, then Rissa spoke softly.

"If you like there's a guy I know, a friend of Poppy's, who's into that kind of thing. He lives over in Rich, but I'm sure if I gave him a call and told him about it he'd see you. He's a collector, but he's crazy about all kinds of old stuff. Rare antiques, Egyptian crap, that kind of thing. If nothing else he could maybe tell you how old it is."

Her eyes were bright again, hopeful with the prospect of returning a favour, with helping him somehow. Looking back at her he wondered what he'd done to deserve such kindness from a virtual stranger, before remembering, oh yeah. The whole life-saving deal. Gave a small nod before sitting back down on the fold-out. Her skin smelt of fruit and flowers, and her close proximity to his naked body suddenly seemed very distracting.

"That'd be great."

A pause.

"Thank you."

She smiled, and he noticed her gaze linger on his torso a little longer than was absolutely necessary.

"OK. Well, I'd better hit the sack. Early start and all."

She went to turn out the lamp, and he stopped her quietly.

"S'OK. You can leave it on. Don't think I'll be getting any more sleep tonight anyway."

Her eyes met his fleetingly and he looked away, before turning over onto his side. Heard her almost-sigh again.

"O.K then. "

A long pause and then from further away, a little inside her room;

" 'Night Pete."

Her door clicked shut and he grunted, pushed his head further into the pillow and brought his knees back up. Tried to think of something dull. Something boring as fuck. Something other than a luscious nineteen-year old girl, with tumbling chocolate hair and a slim, nubile, golden body that had all been clearly visible through her filmy baby-doll pyjamas. Anything other than that.

Like, faced with the choice of giving himself any name in the whole bloody world, why in hell had he chosen 'Pete'?


	5. Rich

This time the sun woke him, and for just a moment he was frozen with terror.

Lazily opening his eyes, he was momentarily blinded by the yellow light slicing through a gap in the curtains, and without warning an insane fear filled him, as if he had awoken to find a knife being held at his throat. Horrified, he recoiled violently, ripping the bed sheets up, and threw himself backwards. Scrambling, hand over hand into the dim safety of the shadows.

A second or two passed before he became aware of his own body again. The taut rigidity of his limbs and then, more slowly, his fists wrapped with the linen bed sheets. Carefully he let out a breath, held it and felt the crazy pumping of his own heart.

_::Jesus...what the fuck...!?::_

Forced the muscles to slacken, breathed again, slow and regular.

_::S'ok. Just a little sunlight. Nothing to be afraid of::_

_::Fucking idiot.::_

It took a full minute before his pulse had returned to normal, and when it did he was surprised to find the small apartment now completely deserted. The absence of Rissa's purse from the kitchen counter told him that, true to her word, she and Tommy had managed to leave without waking him. An act of kindness he was grateful for, if somewhat embarrassed. Looked down at his naked body and frowned. He only hoped that he'd been properly covered when she'd let herself out.

The clock on the TV said that, impossibly, it was already 9am and reaching to scratch under one arm he grimaced as he realised that Rissa's polite suggestion he take a shower had probably been more for her own sake than his. He yawned and stretched widely, popping the joints out deliciously in his shoulders. Sitting around in his own filth watching daytime soaps all day did have an oddly comforting ring to it, but the fact was he had work to do. People to see. Lost sisters to find. And humming softly to himself, he looped the bed sheet loosely around his waist before going in search of a clean towel.

Rissa's bathroom smelt just like her; kiwi fruit and freesias, and breathing in the scented air he half smiled as he reached into the shower stall for the faucet, turned it full blast to 'hot'. A new toothbrush lay on top of a clean face flannel and bath towel and he squeezed some paste onto it whilst he waited for the water to heat up. She'd left her medicine cabinet open and cocking his head to one side he had a quick nose through, just to see what crap she thought was good for her health. Grinned as he noticed that the unopened packet of multi-coloured condoms was covered with a thin layer of dust - not much use for them of late. Shut the cabinet again without a trace of guilt.

The face that stared back at him from the mirror was his own of course. He knew that instantly, but still that didn't prevent him from starting backwards in surprise at the image of the man in front of him. Wide startled blue eyes reflected the emotion, shading back now from surprise to wary curiosity, and without knowing why he bared his teeth at it, snapped his jaws. Glowered, and then pulled on a lock of his hair and stared at it critically. Christ, she hadn't been kidding when she'd said he needed a dye-job. At least half an inch of mid-brown was showing at his roots, the blonde ranging from a white, sunburned platinum at the ends to a dirty honey-gold in the middle. Frowned at himself again as he wondered what on earth he'd been thinking of. Bleached fucking blonde hair. Jesus H Christ.

The steam from the shower fogged the glass and he turned back to the stall, unwrapping the sheet as he stepped inside. Let the hot water course down over his neck and head for a good long while before he even thought about actual washing. Let every remaining trace of nervous tension wash off and out of him. He had no idea how long it had been since he last bathed, but looking at the grey water sluicing down towards the drain he had a feeling it had been a while. Too long. And tipping his head back he pushed the wet hair back off his face, reached out for Rissa's shower gel.

He had no idea what he was going to do of course. No ideas full stop, if truth be told. Despite all yesterday's technicolour flashes his brain was still a wasteland, still empty of any trace of self or motivation. He wanted to find Dawn - had to - but when he did? That part he wasn't too clear on. In the best possible scenario his little sister greeted him, running with open arms, tears of relief and his true name on her lips. An explanation that was both plausible and fascinating, and a sure-fire cure-all that would bring all his memories back in an instant. In this scenario there was also cocoa and freshly baked cookies, and out back - in the garage of their beautiful, well-appointed suburban home - a black, mint-condition '66 Mustang that he'd all but forgotten how to drive.

In the other scenario, and this was the one that haunted him of course, the one he couldn't help but feel was more likely; his world was over. Dawn was long dead, buried under thousands of tonnes of rubble somewhere at the bottom of that gaping grey crater that stretched twenty miles from side to side. His family were all gone. His home was dust, and his name was forgotten along with everyone else who had ever meant anything to him. He was alone. Utterly and completely. And the memory loss; that was maybe just his way of dealing with it all of it, like hysterical blindness.

The water turned cool for a moment and, reaching behind him, he twisted the faucet back up to scalding hot, waited just outside the stream until it got bearable again.

And then, alongside all that, there was the 'how' and the 'where'. Sunnydale was a disaster zone, an open grave so shockingly vast that half the people in it would probably never be identified, and from what the news reports and the papers were saying the few survivors who didn't have anywhere else to go had already been relocated. Found temporary accommodation in homes and hotels by the mighty State of California. There was a number of course, a line you could call twenty-four hours a day if you needed help, if you wanted to find out your loved ones were safe. Closing his eyes he could imagine how the conversation might go:

_"Can you help me please, I'm looking for my sister. She lived in Sunnydale."_

_"Alright sir, can I take some details from you. What's your sister's name?"_

And right about there it all got a little complicated.

Shutting off the shower, he stepped out and reached for the towel to dry himself off, picked up the forgotten toothbrush from the sink and scrubbed away the acrid taste of stale beer. Rinsing his mouth out he washed the brush and dried it carefully, placed it back on top of the laundry bin. He wouldn't be using it again but maybe Rissa might have another overnight guest who would.

In the front room he stripped the bed off before folding the vicious thing back into a couch, took the sheets out back to the laundry room only to find his own clothes, clean and still warm lying inside the washer drier. No underwear of course; for some reason his previous incarnation hadn't felt the need for it, but the worn black jeans were comfortable enough on their own, albeit somewhat creased. Pulling them on he carefully buttoned up the flies and reached back in for his t-shirt, before stopping cold in horror.

Fuck it.

The amulet.

Jamming his hands into the drum he felt around desperately, but inside there was nothing but grit and sand, a few large flakes of black stuff that could have once been metal. Drawing them out he groaned and sunk to his knees, his head dropping down to rest on the floor. Cursed and pushed his fingertips hard into his scalp.

Fucking idiot!

 _Stupid_ fucking _**idiot!**_

His only real clue. His only proof that any of this was real, that he was real. His only link to who he had been. And he couldn't blame her for it, his own stupid fucking fault, and hissing softly he leant forward and bounced his head hard off the concrete. Dragged himself back up into a sitting position, and then let out an abrupt barking laugh as he saw Rissa's neat hand-printed note sitting on top of the dryer.

 

_x - Pete - x_

_Here is some clean underwear, I noticed you didn't have any (?!)_

_and before you wonder they're mine not some guy's, I just wear them in bed sometimes!_

_Hope you didn't mind me washing your things,_

_but I figured you probably wouldn't object to not smelling._

_Here's the number and address of that friend of Poppy's in Rich I told you about,_

_his name's Pete too so you two should get along fine!_

_I'm guessing you won't be here when I get back so I just wanted to say thank you._

_Again I mean! It was good to see you and know you're doing o.k._

_I just know you'll find Dawn safe and well, so when you do, give her mine and Tommy's love._

_Take care of yourself,_

_R_

_x_

_PS. the front door locks when you close it._

 

Weighting the paper down, the amulet was folded inside.

There were fifty dollars too and, despite all his misgivings, he took it. Crammed the folded bills down hard into the back pocket as he pulled on his boots, and hated himself. There was no way she could afford it, but then he couldn't afford to refuse her. Pulling the straps tight he buckled his belt. Glowered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he stalked passed it. He'd pay her back somehow, and soon.

The door slammed shut behind him and, taking the front steps two at a time, he paced out into the street and the already blazing hot morning sun. Twisted his head to glance it as he did so. 80º and still rising. Just perfect bloody weather for a long bus journey.

In actual fact the ride was only just over an hour and a half, and time passed quickly enough. With some of Rissa's money he bought himself copies of TIME and Newsweek, both of which featured vast wide-angled shots of the crater on their front covers, and spent the duration of the journey poring through every article. Studying every shot. One, a full-page colour image of two dust-caked, weeping children being comforted by a distraught looking police officer, made his heart twist in his chest. The girl was around 15 and had long straight brown hair. Folding the page back he stared at her face, tried to see. Was it Dawn? Could it be her? Looked in the background at the blurry shapes of other survivors, a tall girl in a pink skirt; her face masked with her own blood, someone squatting on the ground rocking themselves. Any of them. Any of them could be her.

_::A Town Disappeared::_

Skimming through the articles, he frowned as he picked out phrases:

_crime hotspot..._

_highest fatalities due to..._

_phenomenally high levels of..._

_54 people missing and presumed dead in one year alone..._

_high concentration of seismic activity..._

Folded the magazine twice and then bunched it up tight in his fist. What in God's name had he been thinking of trying to look after a kid in a town like that? Why when there were so many other places? Safer places. Places less likely to crumble into a fucking enormous hellish abyss.

Air brakes signalled another stop, and looking up he was surprised to see that they'd arrived and were drawing to a halt on what must constitute Rich's main street. Forced to wait whilst several elderly women climbed off, his eyes darted around impatiently, looking for a street sign or something else that would let him know which way to head next. Noticed an old man leaning comfortably against the window of the drug store nearby, an equally fat and ancient-looking dog asleep at his feet.

" 'scuse me mate. You know a jewelry store name of Padjett's round here?"

The old guy smiled benevolently without answering, shook his head.

"Nope...ah...not...ah..."

A very, long thoughtful pause before;

"No. Not one round here anyway."

He was looking around for someone else to ask when the old guy cleared his throat again. Gestured with the end of the dog leash.

"But there's a little place sells rings, bracelets and such half way down there on your left. Down the way opposite the bakery. Little foreign fella runs it. Punjab, Panjitt..."

Staring down the road towards the store he was pointing to, he squinted at it before turning back to him with a slight frown of confusion.

"That one there?"

The old guy followed his finger, smiled.

"Yep, that's it. One with the blue sign out front."

"The one that says...'Padjetts' on it?"

"That's the one."

Entering the place, the temperature dropped thirty degrees almost immediately, the cool ionised air creating a sensation not unlike stepping behind a waterfall. No bell rang but within seconds a man appeared at the rear of the shop, stepping quietly through a heavy curtain, and greeted him.

"May I help you?"

His voice was soft with the faint trace of a highly educated Indian-accent, and his impeccable dress strangely at odds with the surrounding town. Reaching out a hand he indicated a glass case to his right.

"You are looking for a present perhaps? I have many beautiful things."

"I don't doubt it mate. But I'm not here to buy anything."

Drawing the amulet out of his pocket, he unfolded Rissa's note and placed it on the case.

"Mutual friend of ours thought you might be able to tell me a bit more about it."

"A mutal friend?"

"Poppy Foster. Well...his daughter actually."

"Ah, the lovely Marissa."

Producing a small magnifying lens from his pocket, Padjett polished it carefully before stepping forward, a small slight smile on his face. Lifted the metal disc from the paper and brought it up to his eye. Peering through, he squinted at the front and made a irritable tutting sound.

"It is very old. Very old. But very badly damaged. Burned."

He took his eye away from the glass and gave him an angry searching look.

"How did this happen?"

The accusation in his voice was unmistakable and, shaking his head, he raised both hands in a placatory gesture.

"No idea mate, don't look at me. Just found it that way."

Scowling slightly, Padgett turned back to his glass. Reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a tiny soft-bristled brush.

"There is an inscription on the back. Did you know that?"

"Yeah, can't make head or tale of it though."

He briefly toyed with idea of mentioning the horse thing, but thought better of it.

"In Egyptian we thought."

"No, I think not."

The man's eyes narrowed as he worked deftly at it for a moment with his brush, before placing it back down on the case. Stepping over to a desk, he slid a drawer open.

"The Egyptian written language used largely pictograms, this is something else. An early root of Swahili if I'm not greatly mistaken, something scholars like to call Proto-Bantu."

The drawer clicked shut and he returned with a small humming electrical implement in his hand. Frowning, he worked it gently over the surface of the metal, freeing some of the larger flakes and brushing them away. After a moment or two he stopped, frowning more deeply now. Turned off the tiny mechanism and gave him another sharp look.

"This does not make sense."

"What doesn't?"

A mixture of complete confusion and disbelief crossed his face and abruptly he laughed, looked at him again with renewed curiosity.

"Where did you say you found this?"

"In the desert."

"The Negev?"

"Mojave."

Padjett's eyebrows fluttered upwards in surprise.

"Here? In America?"

"Yeah. 'Bout fifty, sixty miles away. Why?"

Something about the man's excitement was getting to him, the exact same slow, slinking feeling he'd had as Rissa had started to tell him her story. His eyes were bright with a suppressed fervour, and as he rested one on the glass case he noticed his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

"Why? Because my friend, this piece...if it is real...should not exist. The first language here..."

Tentatively he touched one of the characters with a fingertip, before taking a pen and tracing it out on the back of Rissa's note.

"This is a Bantu root, the oldest form of which is only two-thousand years old at most. But this character here is different, simplified. Which would suggest an even earlier form of Proto-Bantu..."

"So that makes it older by how much?"

"That's just it. There is no older form. If there were that would make this object a minimum of four thousand years old. Perhaps older."

"Four thousand years?"

The man's eyes glowed as he nodded an affirmation.

"Is that possible?"

"None of this is possible. The technology to make metal artifacts such as this wasn't developed for another thousand years at least in that part of the globe. And then there is this..."

His eye went back to the glass, and working intently, he carefully traced three more characters on the paper next to the first, his lip caught fast between his teeth as he checked this work against the originals. Turning to look at him again, he was almost breathless as he pointed at them.

"And that is old Aramaic."

"Aramaic?"

The slinking feeling again, and this time his felt it in his feet too; like water rising up through the floor filling him with an cold sense of foreboding.

"Should that mean something to me?"

"Old Aramaic...it's an extinct form of Aramaic, a semitic language. Proto-Sinaitic. And from a ...completely different time and place. It makes absolutely no sense at all for these two..."

A sudden nervous laugh and Padgett took a step back, touched a hand to his forehead and seemed surprised to find it beaded faintly with sweat.

"I'm sorry."

Taking a deep breath he forced a smile,

"I'm getting...it's just this sort of thing doesn't happen to me every day. Not here anyway."

The man's attempt to cover his nervousness was almost as unsettling as his excitement, and glancing around the shop he was relieved to see a bottle of fairly decent-looking brandy sitting up on one of the higher shelves. Nodded his head towards it with a friendly air.

"Maybe we should both have a drink, eh Pete? Steady our nerves a bit before you tell me anything else I won't understand."

Giving him a rather lop-sided grin Padgett bobbed his head in assent, pointing behind him to another case.

"There are some crystal glasses in that one. Beside the Incan death mask..." off his look, "Just a cheap reproduction."

Taking out a small black notebook he paged through it distractedly before reaching for the phone. Accepted the tumbler of brandy with a grateful air.

"But first of all, I'm going to make a phone call."

"Oh yeah? Who to? The British Museum?""

He frowned as he took a sip of his drink, flattening Rissa's letter out in front of him. Raising his eyebrows his companion tipped his own glass back and emptied it, before lifting the receiver and punching in the number.

"No, an old college friend of mine in the city."

The faint beep of an answering machine on the other end, and smiling to himself, Padgett waited a moment before he spoke.

"Wesley? It's Peter. I think you might want to come up here. I have a little something I'm sure you're going to find quite fascinating."


	6. Hancock Park

It was four hours at least before the guy rang back, by which time they'd all but finished the remaining half-bottle. Admittedly Padgett had done most of the real drinking, in between long and wholly unintelligible bursts of rhetoric regarding the origins of ancient Asiatic languages, and then later, the Hittites and Sumerians. Despite his blood-alcohol level however, he managed to sound reasonably lucid on the phone. Outlined the story in around twenty-five words, described the more intriguing features of his find with some obscure historical references, and then smiled broadly and put the receiver down.

"He's on his way."

Something about Padgett's smug demeanour told him that the relationship between these two men was something more than just a simple friendship, but he resisted the impulse to ask him directly about it. For all of fifteen seconds at least.

"So this friend of yours, he'll be able to tell us some more about this? Professor is he?"

Frowning slightly, the other man leant forward over his desk, adjusting the angle of the magnifying lens he'd trained over the amulet. Staring through it, he cleared his throat.

"He's...ah...somewhat of a specialist in obscure and extinct languages, yes."

Took his eye away and gave him a unconvincingly indifferent smile.

"He's authored a number of papers on the use of Proto-Bantu in relation to totemistic and fetishistic artefacts specifically. Proposing a few fairly radical theories." a sigh, "Most of which were complete bunkum of course, but well..."

He returned to the glass,

"Interesting none the less."

"Smart bloke then?"

Padgett frowned again, although this time his indifference was a little less studied. A little more petulant.

"Yes. A very smart man."

"Expert you think?"

"In his field, yes."

Baiting him was fun, but the novelty soon wore off. Besides which, the expectation of receiving answers to at least some of his questions was making him a little jumpy. Scanning the interior of the shop again he got to his feet, began a slow circuitous ramble around the interior. Most of the display cabinets housed trinkets, obvious reproductions of rare objects priced accordingly, but nearer the back a large, heavily reinforced case held a number of more authentic-looking items. Tossing a look back over his shoulder, he tried the lock surreptitiously.

"Don't touch that please."

Padgett's hand reached out for another small implement and, without raising his head, he adjusted the light next to him.

"That case is locked for a reason. Most of those pieces are unique and extremely fragile."

Unique. Right.

Cupping his hands against the glass, he gave a small snort, tried to read the tiny hand-written label under one that looked an awful lot like a plain old wooden soup ladle.

" _'Mayan cranial spoon'_?"

Charming.

"So you collect this kind of stuff then? You an archaeologist?"

Tiny buzzing sounds from the desk and he glanced round to see the man busily employed with another tool, brow furrowed in concentration. He grimaced, blowing on the surface of the metal disc before putting it down.

"I was. Many years ago."

The next object on display looked a little like a many pronged fork, deep glossy red-brown - the colour of treacle. Tilting his head to one side he fancied he could still see some blood stains on the tines.

"So what happened?"

Padgett sighed, a small irritable sound.

"I gave it up."

"What, got sick of it?"

"Something like that."

A wide cavernous bowl, broken and blackened with age and fire. Could have been metal, but then what were the two short horns sticking out from the base. The curve on the front, oddly reminiscent of a human brow. Looking around for the label he realised it had fallen down, was lying in dust on the shelf below. Twisted his neck and tried to read it from underneath.

_::Mesopotamian Resurrection Urn: unknown animal skull, purportedly demon::_

Righto.

"Something like what?"

This time the man's sigh was longer, more weary, and after a second or two he leant back in his chair, snapped off the light he'd been working under.

"Something like an accident. I was in Northern Africa, the sort of dig you wait a lifetime for. There was a team of five of us - fresh out of Oxford - and one night we were jumped by some locals. Religious types, objected to us desecrating their sacred ground. They had some kind of animal with them and it was completely crazed. Attacked us and killed every one of my friends. I got off easy I suppose."

His eyes narrowed slightly and he smiled, reached down and rolled up the left cuff of his pants. Below the ankle his leg ended in a twisted darkened stump, livid purple teeth marks showing clearly just above where the shattered limb joined the prosthesis.

"I lay there for four days before anyone found me."

"Jesus."

Padgett nodded, pulled down the leg again and covered himself.

"Worst thing was, the following year another team went out there, finished up what we'd started. Published a paper that challenged everything that had ever been known about that region. Sparked all kinds of debate. Chap who wrote it ended up an honorary Dean and wrote another four books on the subject before he finally went off the rails."

"Off the rails?"

"Intellectual supernova. Theories based on established fact that were just...insanity. Tied the whole culture into demon worship and hypothesised that the whole site was some enormous magnet for dark energy. Intended to bring about the final apocalypse."

"Final apocalypse? What, as opposed to the three or four practice runs?"

The other man grinned ruefully, lifting his now half-empty brandy glass to swirl the contents.

"According to Professor Rupert Giles, there have been no less than twenty-three."

"Twenty-three. Really?"

"Hm."

"And that brings us right up to date does it? None planned for the next few weeks?"

"Not as far as we know."

It was eight o'clock when the sound of a car drawing up outside, finally signalling the arrival of the eagerly awaited Mr Wyndham-Pryce. Lounging comfortably in an armchair in the back room, Padgett was instantly in motion. Dusting digestive biscuit crumbs off his jacket with one hand he checked his reflection briefly in a mirror and straightened his tie, before shooting a flustered glance at his companion. Staring back at him, it seemed as if his reassurance was needed so he offered it.

"You look...very nice."

Flushing, the other mans hand arrested in the smoothing of his hair and he cleared his throat nervously.

"Haven't seen him for a while. We used to be..." he smiled awkwardly, "Let's just say there was some professional rivalry."

A sharp knock sounded on the window and the back door opened to reveal a tall, good-looking man in his early thirties, so far from the stereotype of an Oxford-educated Professor as to be ridiculous. Stepping over the threshold, he smiled warmly and easily at his old friend, clasping his hand.

"Peter. So good to see you."

His eyes drifted even as he spoke, sliding over to where Padgett had been sitting, and then a brief movement of the eyebrows as he acknowledged another's presence.

"It can't believe it's been over a year. You've haven't been into the city at all?"

"Not since December. I tried to reach you."

A small frown,

"December? Ah...yes...that was quite a busy month I seem to remember. I must have missed your call."

Another warm, rather vague smile, but this time he noticed a strange paradox in the man's eyes. A cool, sharpness that suggested a great deal more going on beneath the exterior. Clearing his throat again, Padgett took a step back letting Wesley enter the room. His own expression, by complete contrast, was excitable, and with a nervous gesture he indicated his companion.

"This is the young man I was telling you about. Peter...ah..."

The sentence hung in the air, and after a moment he realised it was him they were both waiting for. His surname. Shit. His eyes darted around the room looking inspiration.

_Tea cup?_

_Brandy?_

_Screwdriver?_

"Ah...Phillips. Peter Phillips. Pete. Nice to meet you."

The hand that grasped his own was also cool, although accompanied by a slight curious smile.

"You're English?"

"Last time I checked."

The kind of dry laugh that let him know what he'd just said was neither funny or clever.

"London?"

"How'd you guess?

It seemed like a fair assumption, and Pryce sounded satisfied with the answer. Losing interest in him, he turned back to Padgett.

"So where's this impossible talisman of yours, Peter? You say it was found locally?"

"By Mr Phillips here, yes."

"In the Mojave you said?"

A slight sideways glance to confirm and they were both gone, back into the main body of the shop to inspect the treasure.

Watching them it was almost as if he had ceased to exist suddenly, such was the power of their passion. Pryce had produced a pair of wire-framed glasses and with them on suddenly looked far more the part, like a slightly less-macho version of Indiana Jones. Standing beside him, the shorter and less distinguished Padgett had assumed an equally intense expression, handing his friend one tool after another as he requested them, all sense of rivalry forgotten.

"You see the strike there? Downward stroke? I'm thinking 'ro-ho', yes?"

"Could be. Do you have anything more abrasive than this?"

Another minute of silence and more heavy breathing. The two men seemed engrossed in some infinitesimal detail and, lingering near the back of the shop, his curiosity started to overcome him.

"Roho. That a word is it? Mean anything to you?"

Lifting his head Wyndham-Pryce studied him for a moment, before dropping his eyes again.

"Usually 'breath'. Some of the earliest uses of it translate as meaning 'soul' or 'life-force'."

A step or two more, and he could almost see the mark he was referring to, cleaned and defined as it had been by Padjett's work. Tilted his head and leant forward.

"What's the one next to it?"

"Nish'ma."

"And that means...?"

"...the same thing. Different language. Entirely separate civilisation. Where was it you said you were from?"

Meeting his eyes he saw that the man's gaze had narrowed on him, his hands suddenly stilled in their work. Padjett's nervous laugh interrupted,

"Mr. Phillips drove up from Barstow this morning. A friend of a friend."

But it was almost as if he hadn't spoken at all, so little notice had been taken. Straightening up, Pryce's voice became softer.

"And just how did you come across this piece, Mr Phillips? If you don't mind my asking?"

The suggestion in his tone was unmistakable, but never the less, he risked a casual shrug.

"Like the man says. Just found it."

"Found it on the ground? Or in someone else's private collection perhaps?"

"Hey!"

Raising an eyebrow, the other man bowed his head back to the lens.

"I've never seen anything quite like this before, but I have documents that refer to something similar. An talisman thought to have been lost in the early fifteenth century by its keepers, purported to have great power and significance in relation to the apocalypse."

"Which one?"

"Who can say."

Leaning forward he blew a few more fragments of sand and metal from the surface of the disc, and then gave a small disappointed sigh.

"The last part is burned away completely I'm afraid. It could be anything."

"It could be 's'daka' though. Don't you think?"

"S'daka? Where are you getting that?"

"This part...here. The Aramaic is deb'akh."

"Yes, I'm quite aware of that."

"So then this half echoes it...see...here. Roho-Nish'ma: Soul. Deb'akh-S'daka: Sacrifice. Cha'y-H'ai: Life."

"Like a Rosetta you mean?"

"Exactly!"

Leaning in closer, Padgett's back blocked the amulet from his view again, and he rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't mind me. Just belongs to me is all."

"You know, I very much doubt that."

Straightening up again, Wyndham-Pryce regarded him steadily for a moment before removing his glasses. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a clean handkerchief and carefully polished them.

"In fact, I very much doubt anything you'd told my friend Peter here is the truth. Am I right, Mr...Screwdriver?"

It was the sound of his bluff finally being called and, he had to admit it, to let go was actually a bit of a relief. Held the other man's gaze for a good long while though before he let his own eyes drop, just to let him know that he wasn't a fellow to be trifled with.

"All right, you've got me there. Name's not Phillips,"

He gave short, dry laugh.

"Or 'Pete' either, thank god."

"And the amulet?"

"It's mine. That part's true. Found it in the dirt underneath me, right after I woke up."

Wesley's expression wavered into confusion.

"Woke up? You were...asleep in the middle of a desert?"

"Not asleep exactly," he frowned, "Unconscious perhaps."

"You don't remember?"

"Not a thing. Not even my own name as it happens."

He smiled at them widely, genuinely happy to be able to admit it out loud at last, and watched as the two other men exchanged looks of total disbelief.

"So let me get this straight. You woke up in the desert with no memory of who you are, or how you got there and what...this is the only lead you have?"

"That's about it, yeah."

It did sound ridiculous of course, even to his own ears, but suddenly he didn't care any more. Felt good to just say it. Rested his palms on Padgett's nice leather desk and hopped up to sit on the surface. Grinned.

"I'm a poor little lost boy, with no Mummy or Daddy."

"Quite."

Shaking his head, Wesley turned back to the talisman for a moment, frowning deeply.

"And you have no memory of what this is or how you came by it?"

_A small hand filled with chain, looping, dropping heavy into his palm. His closing over. Hope. Joy. Love. Everything he knows he hasn't the right to feel._

"Not a bloody clue."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Blanche DuBois said it. He doesn't know how he knows that, but some part of him is certain. Can even hear the actresses' voice as she says the line. Prissy little fake Southern accent, all fanning hands and fluttering eyelashes;

"'I always rely...on the kindness of strangers'."

"What?"

Grinned as he realised he'd said it out loud.

"Sorry. Just...stuff. Remember weird things sometimes. Never anything useful."

He shrugged,

"I just meant thanks. For offering to help me out I mean. Didn't really know what I was going to do next."

"Don't mention it."

Darkness in the speeding silent car and he was grateful his expression was hidden, because he had an inkling it was probably cow-eyed and quite unmanly right now. Beside him, illuminated by the glow from the dash, Wyndham-Pryce eyed him suspiciously for a moment before his expression softened into curiosity.

"Do you dream at all?"

He considered the question, and then shook his head.

"Don't think so. Not yet anyway."

"You said something about a sister though."

"Yeah. Can't remember what she looks like. Just...can hear her voice. Feel her hand..." he touched his face,"...here."

Closing his eyes he looked for her again, but without Rissa the pictures were fading, almost as if he'd needed her there to hold onto the memory. Reached around in his pocket for her little note instead, his tiny scrap of reality, and held it tight inside his hand, like a pressed flower.

"And you reckon this mate of yours can help me?"

Pryce nodded, a little grimly he thought.

"He has what you might call a gift for it."

"Like a mind-reader?"

"A bit."

"He a detective too?"

"Not in the strictest sense."

"And you?"

"Not entirely."

"But you both work for one."

"Not exclusively."

"Right."

He bent, flicked the car stereo on and turned up the volume. Some country bollocks about hearts and loneliness.

"He any more likely to give me a straight answer?"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll do his best."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Snapping on the light, Pryce's living quarters were revealed as somewhat of a disappointment. From the exterior, the beautiful well-situated Art Deco building looked opulent, almost grandiose, but inside the one bedroomed apartment was quite the opposite. Spartan and stone-coloured it cried out lonely bachelor with every inch of empty wall space. A complete absence of personality, almost as if it had been deliberately erased. The furniture, although utilitarian, was fairly comfortable though and after the briefest possible tour the two men dropped into the matching armchairs with equally weary sighs.

A brief pause, and then Wesley spoke.

"Will be you be all right here on the sofa tonight?"

"It a fold-out?"

"Ah...no."

"Then I'll be fine."

Another long pause, and somewhere a large old-fashioned clock began to chime softly. Unable to stop himself he smiled.

"What is it?"

"That sound."

"The clock?"

"Yeah. Don't know why, makes me think of home."

"Home?"

"England."

"Ah. Yes."

Another long pause and this time they were both listening, waiting and counting the chimes till it wound itself to a stop. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Midnight.

"Night-cap?"

"Don't mind if I do."

"Whisky all right?"

"Single malt?"

"Of course."

The soft clink of a well-stocked drinks cabinet, also strangely evocative of home. Maybe he'd come from a family of alcoholic clock makers.

Straight and warm, no ice, and companionably they sipped their drinks in silence, listened to the wail of police sirens through the open window, the street sounds below.

"You don't have a TV."

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"Not at present."

Bit of a chill there. Interesting.

"You prefer Wes or Wesley?"

"My friends use either."

A pause,

"And how would you like to be addressed? Shall we stay with 'Pete', or would you prefer something else now you've had time think about it?"

A withering stare,

"Fuck Pete. Don't know how I came up with that. Sounds like a bloody dog's name. Call me anything, just not that."

Thought for a moment,

"Not Duane though."

Another long silence, only this time it was broken by their almost simultaneous yawns. Shaking himself alert the other man stood, pinched at the bridge of his nose, and nodded politely.

"Well, I'll say good night then."

"Yeah. 'Night."

A pause.

"Thanks. Again."

Another slight nod and he started to move away, stopped as he reached the bedroom door and half-turned.

"You said you thought your sister lived in Sunnydale?"

"Yeah."

"Roughly how old do you think?"

"Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Why?"

He blinked wearily, frowned.

"I was just thinking. I have a friend who lived there until...very recently. Her younger sister's about that age. There's a chance they might know each other."

"Yeah?"

"Perhaps. It isn't...wasn't a very big town. Just the one high school if I remember."

"She nearby?"

"Staying locally, yes. A few blocks from here."

"Maybe give her a call then? After we see the mind-reader?"

A smile.

"Lorne. Yes."

"And your detective mate. The one with all the answers."

"Angel."

"Angel, right. He Italian?"

"No, Irish I think. Originally."

A small snort of derision as he turned on his side, made himself comfortable. Grunted,

"Angel? That's a girl's name isn't it?"

"I don't know. Maybe that's something you can ask him yourself in the morning."


	7. Wolfram & Hart

"You work _here_?"

Stretching far up into a cobalt-blue sky the sleek obsidian lines of the structure faintly resembled an enormous head stone, although he couldn't say how exactly. More of a feeling than an actual physical similarity come to think of it. The stark beds of silver-grey slate surrounding the front entrance weren't helping though.

"Bloody hell. I figured you for some dank little office somewhere. All venetian blinds and filing cabinets. "

Shaking his head, he shot a disgusted look at Wesley as the other man exited the driver's side.

"This place looks like a bleeding mausoleum."

His companion's face betrayed wry amusement,

"You have no idea."

Pocketed his car keys and led the way into the foyer.

Inside the air fairly thrummed with quiet industry. Everywhere through panes of smoked plate-glass suited men and women worked, intent on their tasks, serious faces and the soft buzz of importance in their voices. On either side of the doorway cameras pivoted soundlessly, tracking their path with interest. Seemingly oblivious to it all, Wesley strode ahead of him, brushing the attentions of a desk clerk aside as if he were a particularly tiny insect, his path unswervingly focused on the elevator at the end of the hall.

"You don't have to punch in or out or anything?"

"Only spiritually."

The door slid closed behind them with an imperceptible hiss. Checking his watch, the other man frowned and punched a button.

"I doubt he'll be in yet."

"The mind reader?"

"Angel. Lorne has his own suite here."

"It's him we want to see first though right? I mean...no need to bother the head honcho if your man can just..."

He started to mime a Vulcan mind-meld before realising the pop reference was completely lost on Pryce. Staring at him, Wesley nodded vaguely before checking his watch again.

"Yes. Well, we can only hope. In the meantime I'm going to see what I can dig up on this mysterious talisman of yours. There are some documents in our reference library I think might shed a little light on the inscription, and I'll get Fred to run it through the spectrograph and see what comes up. This thing could be emitting some kind of energy that's affecting you."

"What? You're just going to leave me with him."

The other man smiled at him reassuringly as the elevator slid to a stop.

"Don't worry it's completely painless. Unless you dislike showtunes."

For some reason Wesley had neglected to mention that his friend was demon. Or about the horns. Although judging by the way the two greeted each other, it didn't seem as if either considered his appearance even slightly unusual. He'd played down his own reaction of course, disguising his initial start of terror as a cramp, although by the creature's amused expression it hadn't fooled anyone. The inconvenience of their unexpected visit acknowledged, Lorne had stepped aside to let them in, casting only a mildly curious gaze over the stranger before offering them both some coffee.

"No. Thanks."

"How about some breakfast. I have some fresh papaya that just defies description."

"No, s'ok."

"Pain de chocolat? I have some fresh croissants."

"Got any pop tarts?"

The ghost of a smile.

"Sorry lambkin, I'm fresh out."

Taking the demon aside to speak in private for a moment, Pryce gave him a reassuring nod indicating he should sit and he did so, still a little wary. But the other man seemed to treat the freak like he was just another old school friend, pink silk pyjamas not withstanding, and after a moment or two he relaxed into a bemused silence at the sight of them talking together. The whole Halloween get-up aside, the bloke seemed pleasant enough. Camper than a van-load of boy scouts of course, but since when had that been an indicator of evil?

Flitting one scarlet eyeball his way, Lorne flashed him a tight smile before lowering his voice to a barely audible mumble.

"He looks like a musician. You sure this isn't just some crazy drug-induced post-Lollapalooza thing?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you get Fred to run a tox-screen on him?"

"No. Because..."

"You think it's magical. Like that memory hex I jinxed y'all with?"

"I think so. There's just something about him..."

"You're telling me. Those eyes! And mama, what I wouldn't do for cheekbones like that."

"I mean his whole...aura. And then there's the amulet. It's powerful, and I'm guessing it's no coincidence he has no memory of how he came by it."

They both turned to look at him again and, seated comfortably on the reproduction Louis XVII gilt-edged throne, he stared back. Raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"So we going to do this then or what?"

"Feisty little Cockney isn't he?"

"Just nervous I think."

Taking a step towards him, Wesley's expression assembled itself into one of gentle reassurance.

"I don't want you to be afraid. I can assure you Lorne may be a little...unorthodox looking, but he is a professional. You'll be completely safe in his hands."

"Knock it off will you, I'm not five."

"Right. Sorry."

Shooting the green demon a last look of gratitude, Pryce turned for the door.

"I'll see you in a while then."

"Yeah, right," muttering, "Unless he sucks out my brains and eats them with a spoon."

Pausing mid sip, Lorne eyed him over the rim of his expresso.

"Before eleven? Are you kidding me? Fresh fruit only cupcake. Gotta keep the colon happy."

Popped a fresh strawberry in his mouth and advanced on him in a swirl of flamingo-coloured satin.

"Now see what we can find that pretty little noodle of yours. And I'm betting that you my friend, are a closet Sondheim fan. Am I right?"

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Something about the drained defeated look in the demon's face made him fear the worst, but he carried right on singing anyway, long after he'd started to flag him down. Had already worked his way through most of Joe Strummer's best stuff anyway so he figured he might just as well finish. As a token of respect to the master if nothing else.

"O.K. O.K. That's enough."

"You sure. I could do another verse?"

"No, that's fine sweetie. You did good."

Running a hand distractedly through short flame-coloured hair, Lorne shot him a look filled with a mixture of confusion and discomfort and then motioned for him to sit down next to him. Warily, he complied.

"O...kay."

Clearing his throat, the demon took another small sip of coffee and then frowned.

"So. This is a little embarrassing for me..."

"Right."

A deep weary sigh and he got to his feet, shaking his head, before a bright green hand arrested him.

"Hey, hold fast there a moment fella! How'd you know what I was going to say."

He scowled,

"'Cause it's written all over your face. Didn't work."

"Did I say that? I didn't say that did I?"

"No? Then why'd you call me 'fella'? Mind mojo worked like you said it would, you'd know my name, social security number, every damn thing about me by now wouldn't you?"

Smiling sheepishly, Lorne scratched at one eyebrow, half nodded.

"O.K, so there wasn't much to see in there but that's something in itself, believe me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that sombody's really done a number on you. Wiped that slate so clean you could eat your dinner off it."

"When you say wiped, you mean..."

"I mean gone. Everything that should be in there, squirreled away, all the crap that any normal hunk of grey matter stores up over a lifetime. Zap. Erased. Someone's had themselves a hell of a spring-clean."

The demon's tone was friendly, light-hearted even, but his words felt like stones none the less. Rocks piling heavy on his chest, and he swallowed, his gaze sliding off him and onto the carpet.

"And the things I remembered? Dawn? That night in Barstow?"

Lorne cocked his head, gave him a smile full of heartfelt sympathy.

"Yeah, I saw what was left of that. But it's fading fast like you said. Kooky thing is, they don't look like they're your memories."

"What are you talking about? How can they not be mine."

Glaring at him he tried to summon the images again. Rissa's face, the sight of those mouths smeared with her blood, but it was fogged even more now, indistinct.

"I can't describe it very well, but people's memories they're kind of patterned...uniquely. Those things you have floating about in there, they're clashing like paisley and plaid."

"Meaning what? What I'm remembering isn't real?"

"Oh no honey, it's real enough. It's just not your real. It's like it's been filtered through someone else who was there and you've just picked it from them somehow."

In some parallel universe he supposed what the guy was saying might make some sense, but right now it really wasn't. He had no memories of his own, but there were memories in his head. And he'd picked them up from who? Rissa? And how? Like radiowaves? TV signals?

"No. That can't...what about the hand."

"The hand?"

"Someone's hand, I saw it. A girl handing me the amulet. She had tiny hands. And we were alone. No one else was there."

"That I can't explain."

"No, it all sounds like complete...I know what I saw. Those are my memories."

"I'm sorry sugar, I just tell it as I see it, that's all."

Unable to stand any more he let himself slide back into the seat, and after a moment he realised that the bright green demon was holding his hand, petting his shoulder comfortingly.

"There is some good news though."

Weakly he stared back at him, tried to summon up the ghost of optimism.

"There is?"

"Wesley was right. A spell did this and from what I can tell, it was a real doozie."

"And that's a good thing?"

"Good and bad. Good because...hey chances are we can find out who did this to you and maybe you can go give them the bitch-slapping they so richly deserve. But bad because..." he grimaced, "Bad because I honestly have no idea how to reverse it. Or even if it can be reversed."

"You're saying I might be this way forever?"

"Well, forever's a relative concept." he shrugged, "You're what thirty-five, forty?"

"What? So I might as well just live with it?"

"There are worse things."

"Worse things? Than not knowing your own name? Not knowing who your family are, where you come from?"

He could feel his jaw starting to ache with a sudden pressure, blunt nails digging into his own palms.

"Worse things than not knowing if everyone you care about is alive or dead?"

"Oh sure!"

"Like what?"

_"Oh, I don't know..."_

The strange man that answered him from the doorway looked oddly emotional, angry even, and staring back at him in sudden confusion he tried to imagine what someone had done to so completely piss him off. Stepping into the room, his eyes narrowed to flint grey slits as he circled him slowly with barely repressed fury.

"How about...you get these 'misplaced memories' of yours back and find out...hey! You weren't such a nice guy to know. Maybe you made some bad choices, hurt the people that cared about you real bad. Messed up their lives and your own pretty good. What if you find out you aren't worth knowing?"

The guy was really mad at somebody that was for certain, and it seemed like he needed to work off some steam. Eyeing him warily, he glanced at Lorne for a clue, but the demon looked just as confused at he did. He cleared his throat.

"I still reckon it'd be better than not knowing at all."

"Oh you think so?"

"Yeah, why not?"

Frowned,

"Least then I could maybe try to make things right."

"Right? What do you know about what's right?"

The venom in the man's voice suddenly seemed very real, and very focused. Taking another step toward him he bent down and pushed his face in close to his ear, spoke softly into it.

"How about this then? How about you unlock that precious little treasure box of yours and you find out that you're a cold-blooded monster. With the moral code of a rattle-snake, and a past that'd make Goebbel's seem coy."

His mouth was so close to him now he could almost feel the smile, feel his mouth stretching into a grin as his breath tickled his cheek. One grey-brown eye laid alongside his, staring into him.

"You want to know what 'the real you' looks like? The you that's still buried in there somewhere? Looks something like this."

A flash of movement, and suddenly there it was. The monster of his nightmares, of Rissa's; razor-fanged and golden eyed, hissing into his face, black-slitted pupils and clawlike hands grasping at his neck as his heart jumped crazily, leaping up in his chest to pound at his throat. Choking back a scream he gasped, fingers dragging ineffectually at the creatures, terror seizing up his limbs as the images began to flare, bursting behind his eyes.

 

_Flash frames._

_Scarlet._ _Scarlet and gold._

_Wet and dripping and ripping, tearing sounds._

_Silk and lace and the sound of a child screaming, shrieking thrashing limbs and tiny booted feet._

 

_"Look at the lovely mess you've made."_

 

_Smashing through bone sinew and wild laughter, hot wine._

 

_"She's a pretty bitty little one. Make her dance for me my William."_

_"Leave some for me boy, there's more than one mouth to feed here."_

 

_Silver-plate moon and black, wet puddles on flagstones._

_Cobbles and something limp and tiny, white, lying at his feet._

 

_"Naughty boy, should have left some for Mummy."::_

_"Jesus..make it stop."_

 

_Hay-smell and the sound of fiddle music._

_Laughter turning to terror, spitting, choking, rasping._

_Smoke and blood and something catching in his teeth that could be hair, silk strands._

 

_"Got this one for you, keep your strength up"_

_Burning skin and hair and wailing, hands at his throat::_

 

Hands on his throat. His face now and then, fast and blurred, in and out of focus like Rissa's had been.

 

_"You really are the dumbest little fuck, you know that laddo? Maybe it's time I taught you another lesson about family."_

 

Faster and iron hard, beating at him like rain they came. The smell of blood, warm splashes on his cheeks and the sounds of struggle, of so many, many deaths. Pushing into him like the fingers on his throat. Sawed his head from side to side, looking for something, anything that would end it, and then saw Lorne. Glaring at them both like he was in the very first stages of a minor hissy fit, arms crossed and mouth pursed up like an angry grandma.

"So I take it introductions are in order?"

"What?!"

Swinging round, the vampire took him as well, still clutching painful handfuls of his skin and t-shirt. Lorne scowled, his mouth setting in a hard green line.

"Don't you dare use the tone with me. You don't just walk in here when I'm with a client and start dragging him around like a chew-toy without giving me some kind of explanation first. You know this boy or don't you?"

The creature's face melted, cheekbones smoothing away in front of him into nothing, grip loosening. Then finally the eyes returned to normal and with them his own heartbeat. Deep, wrenching breaths.

"Jesus! Fucking! Christ! What the fuck...was..."

Ignoring him completely the man/vampire glowered back at Lorne, before dropping his head with a small shake of apology.

"Sorry. He just makes me...mad."

"Yeah, I'm kinda getting that whole vibe. Now you want to tell me his name?"

With a shrug of disgust the vampire let him go, making a big show of wiping off his hands on his thighs, like he'd gotten them dirty. Dropped into the seat opposite and eyed him like a cat with a mouse.

"He's had a few. Born William Henry Forster. Then it was William The Bloody for a while, although not for any of the reasons you're thinking, I can guarantee. Called himself 'Phillipe' for a while when we were in Paris, although that was mostly to avoid being hunted down and dissected by some guy he'd hustled in a game of billiards. Oh, and he once published a book of really bad poetry under the nom de plume 'Jonathane Sanguor' although he never knew I knew it."

Through still unfocused eyes he saw a slow malevolent grin spread across the man's face, one that he recognised now. Knew he'd just seen a thousand times or more in the space of a second.

"But for the last hundred years it's mostly been Spike. And believe me when I say there's a story behind that one as well, although again...not what you're thinking."

"Spike? The Spike?"

"The one and only."

_::Spike my boy, I thought I'd taught you better than that::_

"The same Spike that went and saved the world last week?"

"Alledgedly."

"The same Spike that little fluffbunny at the hotel is tearing her heart out over?"

_::Spike! Spike! Can you hear me?::_

"I wouldn't say 'tearing' exactly. I mean she's upset, sure..."

"I thought he was dead?"

_::my darling deadly Spike::_

"Apparently not. Apparently he found some way out of there they didn't see, like always. I'm guessing the memory thing's just a side-effect from the amulet he was wearing. I'm telling you, this guy's like pond scum, always rises to the top."

"No, I mean I thought he was dead...like undead. A vampire?"

_::Spike! You've. Got. To. Get. Up.::_

"He is."

"Nuhuh. Not unless they changed the definition in the last few days. Check it out. Pulse and everything."

The fingers against his throat were ice-cold, but this time no more pictures came. Managed to shove at it weakly though, push him away.

"Get the...fuck away from me."

The face that stared back into his was just a man's though, albeit a rather pasty-looking one with a puzzled frown on it. Had pretty ridiculous hair too, although he was pretty sure that this wasn't the right time to apprise him of that fact.

"Spike? You want to tell me what the hell's going on here?"


	8. Hyperion Hotel (Part 1)

"He screwed up."

"I'm sorry? Who did...what?"

The corners of the Lilah's mouth twitched, threatening a smile, but her eyes remained deadly serious. She folded her arms,

"Your little friend. He screwed up the whole ritual and now he's in a world of crap, isn't he?"

Wesley's frown of confusion shifted into wary suspicion, still poised as he was with just one foot inside the door and one hand on the door handle. It wasn't altogether surprising to find Lilah alone in his private office when he arrived at work, just...portentous. Since her return from the grave, her visits invariably heralded bad news of some kind which, he supposed, was only fitting.

"You know, I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Rolling her eyes indulgently, his late ex-girlfriend stepped around the desk towards him, being careful as she did so to avoid the assortment of fragile-looking scrolls and parchments that covered the surface.

"Don't play coy with me, Wesley. It's kind of moot after the handcuffs, don't you think?"

"I can assure you I'm not playing anything."

Lilah sighed in exasperation.

"Oh come on. I saw you bring him right through the front door."

"You mean Pete?"

"Pete? Who the hell is Pete? I'm talking about William, The Bloody Tragic."

Wesley's mouth was hanging open a little now, and she couldn't help thinking that it wasn't an entirely unflattering look for him.

"William the...?"

"Bloody, yes. Although apparently not 'bloody' for any of the reasons you'd think. Funny story actually..."

"You mean Spike?"

Lilah's mouth quirked again, a wry smile.

"Oh yes, Spike. I was forgetting."

"No, there must be some..."

His eyes clouded with confusion,

"He's not a vampire."

"No. He's not. So who is he?"

The soft, teasing tone of her voice seemed to be affecting him, and to her delight he stepped in closer, wearing her favourite expression. The one she always secretly imagined him wearing whenever she...well, secretly imagined him. The one that said he'd had enough of all her bullshit and that her fun was now officially over. Taking hold of her upper arms, his eyes narrowed slightly.

"I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I think you'd better tell me what you know."

Held captive by him, Lilah's smile faltered, a faint flush of rose rising to her cheeks. Leaning into his body, she breathed him in, her hair brushing against his bare throat as she spoke.

"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like to start over? Just...wipe away the past and walk away from it all like nothing ever happened?"

Wesley's grip weakened slightly and he stepped away, shaking his head.

"No. I don't."

Raising his eyes to hers, his voice softened a little.

"The past doesn't go away just because we deny it. It's a universe all of its own. It would still have happened. Everything we've ever done would still exist."

"Not necessarily."

Returning his gaze, Lilah's face was a cool mask again.

"Like I say..."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"He screwed up."

"And why doesn't that surprise me?"

Folding his arms across his chest, Angel's frowned deeply as he stared at the subject of their conversation. Stripped naked to the waist in the privacy of a sterile examination room, William The Bloody glared back at them both through the glass as if he was about to be forcibly violated.

"I mean, this is Spike we're talking about."

Beside him, Wesley shook his head, bemused.

"So it would seem."

Stepping in close, Fred's uncertain smile and gentle entreaty to 'hold still now' distracted her patient and he turned away again, letting her continue her curious investigation of his body.

"Apparently the amulet was supposed to cleanse the wearer completely, remove all traces of the demon and his past, anything that could remind him of who and what he was. It appears the process of 'shanshu' is more than just the gift of mortality. It's also the erasing of all past sins. He wasn't supposed to remember anything."

"So why does he?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Lilah said something about his not following the ritual correctly though. Was there anything she said when she gave the talisman to you? Anything at all you might have misunderstood?"

Angel's eyes narrowed fractionally as he watched Fred bow her head towards Spike's chest, stethoscope at the ready.

"No. I don't think so."

"Anything confusing in the file at all?"

"The file?"

A soft giggle and her eyes seemed to glow softly at something he'd said. A coy shake of the head as she placed the stethoscope again, listened intently to the beat of his heart.

"Lilah said there was a file. Several priceless documents with specific details of exactly how the amulet was to be used."

"There was a file?"

Another laugh and this time there was a flirtatious little slap to go along with it. They sure looked like they were getting along famously in there.

"Angel. You didn't give Buffy the file?"

"What??" He scowled. Was that close an examination really necessary? "Yeah, I gave her the file. I'm pretty sure I did."

Turning to look at Wesley, he was surprised to see just how aggrieved he looked. Quite pissed at him in fact.

"What?! I gave it to her! I just...maybe I didn't tell her what was in it? O.K? I'm sorry! I'm not perfect."

"And the fact that Buffy chose him to wear it rather than you, had nothing to do with the oversight?"

Angel shrugged,

"It just didn't seem that important at the time."

He turned back to the glass partition, frowning again when he saw they were both deep in their own conversation now. Fred's small hand resting unconsciously on his upper arm as she pumped the blood-pressure cuff, Spike nodding in interest as she talked. Despite his own lack of a circulatory system, a tiny blood vessel under his eyelid suddenly began to tick.

"After all the crap about the cookie-dough...kinda slipped my mind."

"So _they_ screwed up?"

"It appears that way. The portion of the scroll that describes the ritual is very clear that no person - no living soul - should come into contact with the amulet's bearer once its power has been unleashed. If the flow is broken at all, by contact or by the talisman being removed, then the cleansed soul is irrevocably...altered."

"Altered?"

Wesley frowned,

"The part isn't terribly specific I'm afraid."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"Jeez."

Dribbling the basketball he was holding from hand to hand, Gunn pursed his lips in sympathy before dropping it down to the floor, resting a foot on it. Glancing back at the other two players waiting for him on the court, he shook his head.

"So Angel must be pretty mad. I mean, this guy stealing the whole mortality gig right out from under him. That's pretty harsh."

Wesley sighed softly, remembering the vampire's expression when he had explained the true significance of the amulet to him.

"I think it's fair to say he feels a little cheated, yes."

"And this 'Spike' guy, he still doesn't know who he is?"

"Not yet. Although I'm guessing the flashes of memory he's been experiencing could be the start of a degradation of the spell's power." he shrugged, "Perhaps something else. Unfortunately we've no way of knowing exactly what went wrong."

"Well, that's not strictly the truth though is it?"

Their eyes meeting briefly, the two men shared a look of understanding.

"You mean Buffy."

Taking a quick look behind him again, Gunn nodded.

"Faith said that Buffy was right there with the guy, right up to the...his end. I'm guessing if anyone can tell you what happened, it's her."

"Angel doesn't want them involved at this stage"

"Right. 'At this stage'."

Looking past his shoulder, Wesley eyed the two young interns in sports-gear waiting silently for his friend. He frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Gunn cocked his head to one side, raised one eyebrow knowingly.

"I'm just saying. If she was my girl, I'd be hoping like hell those memories of his stay gone."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"What do you mean 'he screwed up'?"

Dragging her eyes away from the screen of her Powerbook, Willow's voice was sharp-edged with irritation and Fred took several hurried steps backwards out of her room. Despite their rare communications in the past she'd always thought of the witch as a true friend, a soulmate even, but sometimes she got a glimpse of what it must be like to be on the wrong side of Dark Willow and...dammit...now she was even more flustered than she had been before.

"I'm sorry, I should have...it's just...I heard Angel and Wesley talking and I thought...well, someone should come over and tell you guys what's going on. I mean he's your friend and everything, and I think...if it was my brain I mean...I'd want someone who cares about me to...and Angel really doesn't at all."

"Fred will you just slow down? What the heck are you talking about? Whose brain? And what does it have to do with Spike?"

Pushing her hands deep into the pockets of her lab coat, the nervous girl took a deep gulping breath of air, held it tight and counted slowly to three before letting it out.

"Your friend Spike's alive but he doesn't know he's Spike yet, well he does but he doesn't remember anything and I don't think Angel wants him too. I think...I mean I don't know but...I think Angel's maybe going to use more magic to make him forget again and I don't think it's right."

Staring at her incredulously, Willow's jaw hung open for a full ten seconds before she motioned her to come inside and shut the door. Still a little uneasy, Fred silently complied.

"You're saying Spike's alive?"

The witches eyes widened, narrowed in on her when she nodded her assertion. Widened again.

"Oh my God...you don't mean...how alive?"

"Alive. Like with a heart-beat, respiration, sweat-glands, the works. He's human."

"You're sure?"

"Sure. It's definitely him.

"Oh my G...but how did he..."

"The amulet."

"Oh."

Fred watched as she worked through that information, processing, connecting the dots.

"I know that Angel was supposed to wear it but Buffy..."

A brief exchange of glances and suddenly they were both on the same page.

"Oh."

A whole range of emotions seemed to be passing across Willow's face; total disbelief, relief and happiness and then anger. Moving some clothes aside on the bed, her friend seated herself, only to jump to her feet again a moment later as the other girl did.

"I have to go tell Buffy!"

She groaned inwardly.

"Oh God, I can't. What if you're wrong. What if it's not him?"

Fred's eyebrows drew together a little resentfully.

"It's him. I matched up all the base-pairs myself."

"But she's hurting so bad right now. I couldn't tell her he's ok without..."

Eyes suddenly bright, Willow grabbed her hand.

"You have to take me to him."

"I don't know if I can. They have him under observation and it's highest clearance only on the twelfth floor. We won't even be allowed through the door."

"Then we'll make our own door."

Swallowing audibly, Fred gave her a weak smile.

"How did I know you were going to say that."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"Jeez. They really screwed up."

"What? They did not! It's supposed to look like this."

Blinking in mild surprise, Xander paused briefly in the act of adding milk to his Cheerios and stared at her. Cocked his head and then nodded, a little uncertainly at first and then again, more emphatically.

"O.K. O.K. I get it. It's kind of a retro thing, right? Farrah Fawcett?"

Heaving a deep sigh, Dawn rolled her eyes at him, slumped onto a stool and rested her fashionably coifed head in her hands. She curled her lip.

"It looks stupid doesn't it?"

"No. Not stupid exactly."

He lifted his spoon and quietly shovelled dripping Os into his mouth.

"It jud lugs vic."

"What?!"

He swallowed.

"It just looks big."

Reached out and smoothed the side a little.

"You just need to go wash it is all. Spend some time with it. Make it your own again."

Eyeing him sideways, Dawn gave a small incredulous laugh, before twisting round on her chair.

"O.K. And since when did you become the big expert on hair disasters."

Xander shrugged self-effacingly.

"Just one of my many hidden talents."

Finishing the bowl off he reached for the packet again, tipped in another helping.

"It's what Anya always used to say."

Dawn eyes followed his hand as he reached out for the milk jug, unable to look straight at him for a second. She could feel the two ribs she'd broken suddenly start to hurt again, a dull heavy ache that had kept her awake every night since it happened. Crying helped. She did that a lot and she knew Xander did too. Sometimes she could hear him through the wall; deep, wracking choking sobs that always ended the same way. With silence. She wasn't sure which sound was more painful. They comforted each other, they tried at least. But sometimes comfort was pretending it never happened. Comfort was the mutual lie you never spoke of. Comfort was telling yourself that home was still there, that you were all on vacation, that all your school-friends and their homes and families weren't really lost to you. That two more of the people you loved most in the world weren't gone forever and that your big sister, who you counted on for everything, wasn't slowly falling apart inside.

Softly Dawn drew in a breath, slid out her hand and captured his. Fingers twining.

"Tell me what else she'd say."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"Oh man. I screwed it up."

Buffy's forehead puckered into a frown and she sighed, snarled, drew back her arm and hurled the tiny bottle of pink hard candy nail polish across the room to land noisily in the waste bin. Raising her head from her fellow slayer's pillow for an instant, Faith gave her a amused grin, cracked her gum. Changed channels on the TV again.

"Watch it B. That's Dawnie's favourite."

Buffy scowled, picking at her smeared cuticle.

"Then she can buy her own next time."

"Yeah? You gonna tell her that or shall I?"

The frown deepening a little, the other girl sighed, rolled her head slowly from side to side on her neck. Sighed again. Watching her, Faith could almost feel her own skin starting to twitch.

"You hungry?"

"No."

"Thirsty? Xander has beer."

"No."

"Horny?"

A withering look.

"Seriously. There's a club right down the street. We could go check it out."

"Not in the mood."

Faith's eyes roamed the walls of the small, well-furnished room. Angel's taste really wasn't really hers, but she could see he'd made a real effort here, more than he had in her room anyway. Buffy had a TV at least and a shower that actually worked. Plus she didn't have to share with anyone else, which in her book was a major plus. Some of the new Slayers could be real jerks about her choice of music.

"Mah Jong?"

"You play Mah Jong?"

Faith pointed with the remote,

"No, but you do."

Buffy looked, wrinkled her nose at it.

"You have Scrabble too. Whad'ya say?"

Silence.

"Only dirty words allowed."

"What are you doing in here, Faith?"

Her voice was like chipped porcelain, cold and brittle, all pretence at friendliness gone. Taken aback Faith bridled for a second before remembering who this was, who she was. Keeping her eyes fixed on the TV she flipped channels again.

"Just shooting the breeze B. That's all."

A small hand wrested the remote from her. Opened the door up wide.

"Can you just leave me alone for a while."

She felt her shoulders sag a little, even as she forced the stone cold bitch act and of course Faith would notice. Faith who saw everything, who knew damn well she couldn't be left alone right now. Faith who was trying her hardest to bring her back from wherever it was she'd taken herself. Dark brown eyes stared back into her own, serious now, always serious when it counted.

"I know how much it hurts B, but you can't let this drag you under. Not now."

"Now I have my life back you mean?"

"Now we all have. That's what he did it for. What do you think it says about that if we waste it."

"I know that."

Her voice was small and tremulous, but tin-hard with pain.

"Don't you think I know that."

She spread her hands wide, her throat constricting as she tried to speak.

"It's all I ever think about. What he gave me, what he did for me. He gave up everything to make me happy, to give me what I deserved,"

The words started to crack and tumble from her,

"And now he's dead. And that's because of me. Because I couldn't..." she flew at herself, raking hands through her hair, "Because he was stupid, and unselfish, and because he loved me so fucking much that he just...he died from it. And as it turns out the one thing I really need to make me happy died too."

Her breath caught, eyes silver bright with unshed tears, and they stared at each other. Reaching a hand to her face, Buffy swiped at it roughly, turned to the open door again.

"So I'm sorry if I don't feel like celebrating right now."

"B..."

"Don't 'B' me, all right?"

She sighed wearily,

"I'm...ok. I'll be ok."

Sliding off the bed, Faith moved over to the door, seemed about to go through it, and then stopped.

"Eat something then. Come downstairs and eat a burrito and I'll believe you."

"I told you..."

"Yeah, you're not hungry, I know it. Eat the burrito and I'll leave you alone. I promise."

Rolling her head to one side, Buffy moaned softly.

"Faith..."

"Hey! A gal's gotta eat hasn't she? Gotta keep her strength up if she's planning on being anything more than a vamp-snack next time she steps outside."

Something about the determined glint in her eyes told her that this wasn't something that she could circumvent, not without a great deal more argument than she had the energy for.

"O.K. I'll eat the damn burrito. For pity's sake. Does Angel even have a microwave?"

Stepping out into the hall after her, she managed to raise a pale smile at Faith's excited enthusiasm. Grinning widely, the other girl walked backwards in front of her, taking the stairs two at a time.

"Who said anything about microwaves. Thought we could just mosey on down to the corner, that little taco stand is right across from..."

"Wait a minute, I never said anything about going..."

The words died in her throat, dried, her breath leaving her body in one long wordless sigh. Twisting round to see what so captivated her, Faith's eyes widened at the sight that greeted them on the steps of the hotel's foyer.

Willow, bent almost double, her face a mask of nervous fear and excitement, Fred panting with exhertion and damp with sweat. And between them, his weight only half supported by the two exhausted women, a figure so achingly familiar that Buffy thought her heart would break in two, so cruel was the resemblance. The slope of the shoulders, the mess of unruly bleached curls, the curve of his neck. Even down to the boots on his feet, those great, stupid, black, boots. Idly, she wondered how it was possible that anyone could look so like a person and not be them. How ridiculous that was. How incredibly fucking cruel life could be.

But then he lifted his head and saw her, and her world went away.


	9. Hyperion Hotel (Part 2)

"Spike?"

The girl at the top of the stairs seemed frozen in ice, her eyes locked rigid and golden-green on his own and, despite the roaring pain in his head, he couldn't seem to look away.

"Jesus Christ! Spike?!"

It was her friend who had spoken, a slim dark-haired girl who seemed almost as surprised to see him as the redhead had been, almost as happy too. Had to admit, felt pretty good to be surrounded by all these beautiful women suddenly, all so bloody concerned and fussing over him, even if the little redheaded chit had given him the most unbelievable fucking headache as soon as she'd laid a hand on him. The touch of her fingers against his cheek had been electric, like a spark arcing to meet him, and with the pain had come more images, this time so vivid and numerous that he thought he'd blacked out there for a while. And these had been different to the others. More intense emotionally, and razor sharp - as if he were being branded by every one. Voices, places, smells, the terror and the blood and screaming but, folded inside them, moments of stillness, moments of calm and tenderness as well. Even as the pain rendered him unconscious he realised that he must know this girl, knew her very well, although their previous relationship appeared to have been a confusing and fragile one, and one often fearful on her part.

The brunette took the rest of the stairs in a single fluid jump and was on him in a moment, unusually strong hands taking his weight from the little one, the nurse, but still the other didn't move. The blonde. Staring down at him from above her eyes swam like dark sea water, one small, pale opalescent hand arrested midair, caught in the action of brushing her hair back.

"Jesus! What the hell happened to him?"

The redhead, Willow's voice, soft and full of uncertainty.

"I don't know, we couldn't find out. But he's not well. He's...when I touched him before it was like it was...burning him."

"Why's he so hot? Damn, he's like a volcano!"

The nurse's voice now, with just a touch of a tremble in it.

"His temperature's going off the scale. It was a little above normal before, but I just put that down to..." she gulped, swaying uncertainly, "We shouldn't have moved him. Oh god, I think we made him really sick."

"We couldn't just leave him there. You saw his chart. They had him down to see a neurosurgeon. God knows what they were going to do to him on the..."

The little one was shaking her head, eyes wide but adamant,

"No. No..I'm sure Angel wouldn't have let anything bad happen to him. He's not...like that. He was just being..."

"Angel? What, you're saying he knew about this?"

The dark-haired girl seemed shocked, pained even. Her expression wary now, she shook her head, took a step or two backwards.

"No, no, I don't buy it. Angel wouldn't do something like this. He's...he had to have a reason for not saying anything."

"Maybe he did have a reason." Willow's face clouded, weariness and confusion, "I just can't help thinking..."

Her voice died away as she too finally caught sight of the one on the stairs. Letting him slide from her arms into a chair, she took a step towards her.

"Buffy...he's alive." she said.

Even from where he sat he could see the shudder that passed through the other girl's body, and frowned faintly when he saw that she had started to shake. She must be afraid of him too. Afraid of this person he had been, this Spike, the creature whose eyes he'd seen in those nightmare visions of blood and smoke. His throat worked convulsively as he looked at her, tiny and pale like a night-blooming flower, eyes hugely fearful, and he started to stand, pushing himself up out of his seat.

"S'ok. Don't be scared."

Her lip trembled for a moment and she blinked, lashes glossy black with tears. Still silent, still frozen though, and then a tiny sound. A soft moan escaped her,

"No. This isn't fair. Stop it."

"B, it's ok."

The dark-haired girl was speaking again, her tone calm and steady now. Like a parent to a frightened child. Reaching out a hand she grasped one of his own, squeezed it tight.

"See. He's real. Solid."

Her eyes widened a fraction more at that, and he swallowed, trying to find the right thing to say to reassure her. To let her know she had nothing to fear from him. She started to move, stilted and jerky at first, one stair at a time, seeming mesmerised. Still riveted to her, he jumped when Willow laid a hand on his arm.

"Buffy, wait...we don't..."

But her friend was deaf and blind to anyone else now, her slow steady progress dreamlike. As she neared him he felt his heart twist in fear at all the emotions he read swimming in her face. Whatever he'd done to her, it must have been something terrible. Had to have been something awful to make her look at him like that, as if her whole world was crashing down around her ears. As if any minute she would shatter into a million pieces and fly apart. She came to a stop and he swayed unsteadily as her scent wreathed around him. Jasmine and night air. Sunlight and sandalwood, and drawing it in he suddenly understood. Who she was. What she'd been to him. All she'd been. Everything. She'd been his everything.

Her lips opened, breath expelling, mingling with his.

"Is it you?"

He could see her heart beating, almost see it, through the golden skin of her breast, a faint fluttering of movement. She smiled at him then, the tiniest smile, a ghost.

"I dreamed this before, you know? Two nights ago. I dreamed this."

Something cracked in her throat but she fought against it, won.

"You were standing right here, just like this, but it wasn't you. Wasn't really you. Just a shell, nothing left inside. But still looked like you. Still..." she breathed in again, closed her eyes, "Still smelled like you. But when I kissed you..."

One of her hands trembled, lifted from her side as if to touch his face,

"When I kissed you just...you fell away under me. To nothing. Ashes."

The hand halted, faltered to her side again.

"Where did you go Spike?"

His head hurt just from looking at her, the emotions she was pulling from him, thrumming and buzzing like bees inside his chest. Confusing the fuck out of him. She was stranger to him, nothing, but her voice was like a thread worked deep within the cloth of him, dragging at the fabric, pulling him undone.

"Don't know. Don't know where I've been."

"You died. I saw you die."

"I did?"

He blinked, surprised, and then realised that he'd known that somehow, on some level. This was new life singing in his veins, that everything about him was new.

"Were you in heaven?"

For some reason he wanted to smile at that, lips twitching.

"No, pretty certain of that,"

His voice dropped a notch, soft now, just for her.

"Was in Barstow for a bit. Can't say there was much heavenly about it."

Something broke at that, tears spilling down out of her eyes. She gasped weakly, almost a laugh, and this time the hand almost made it all the way up, fluttered half an inch from his skin though as if she could felt the heat radiating from him. She swallowed.

"If I kiss you now, will you promise not to dust on me?"

He held her gaze, wondering, wondering. Felt himself leaning into her touch, leaning into her lips, like a tree towards the sun.

"Do my best."

"Buffy, wait...!"

And then everything just exploded.

 

_"Tell me you love me."_

_"I love you."_

 

_Sharp pain, followed by another, splintering bone, slamming, thrashing._

_"You don't ...know...what love is. How...the fuck...would you?"_

_"You're twisted."_

_"Yeah. And I'm not the only one.."_

_"Fuck you Spike."_

 

_Leather clad and sweat-streaked naked, writhing above him. Eyes flashing like knives as she smiles,_

_"Let's do something...wrong."_

 

_Music, there's people laughing, talking in the darkness, breath like honey on his face._

_"Tell me to go."_

_"Go."_

_He presses into her, crowds into her._

_"Now mean it."_

_Her face, silver blue moonlight, wet with tears and broken. So broken. His hand on his back, and she jerks._

_"Don't."_

 

_"This is so fucked up."_

_"You are so fucked up."_

 

_"Jesus, when did my life get so fucked up?"_

_"Shut your face and get on with it will you."_

_"Oh God, was that supposed to be...romantic?"_

 

_A laugh, like water, soft and warm in the dark._

_"Come here.."_

_He's blind, tied, scrambling to escape._

_"Will you just...come here?"_

_"No you're going to do something."_

_A chink of light and she's laughing at him._

_"Jesus Spike! Don't be such a baby."_

 

_"What happens on Saturday?"_

_"Don't even think about it."_

_"What? I was just..."_

_"Well don't."_

 

Her face, and a thousand expressions of joy and disgust. Like a bullet passing through, blurring every moment together, kaleidoscoping pain and rapture into a ribbon of light, and even as it ripped and shook him he surrendered to it. Embraced it. It felt like he was dying. And maybe he was. She'd said he was. Dying. Dead. Had died. Maybe he had been dreaming. Dead dreaming he was alive. Alive dreaming he was dead. Sun flares and he could still feel her lips.

 

_"I can't fall in love with you, you know."_

_"You can't?"_

_Her eyes are wide and hollow,_

_"But if I could...I would. I'd try to."_

 

_Featherlight on his cheek and she smiles at him,_

_"Kiss me Spike."_

 

_"Why do you...do that?"_

_"Because it's how I feel."_

_"Well, don't."_

_Her eyes are dark and pleading._

_"Please. Don't feel it."_

_She turns away and he sighs._

_"Can't help it. Just the way I'm made."_

 

_Vitrola scratching sounds. They're dancing and it's funny. She laughs at him in his tie, trying not to laugh at him, looks down at her feet and frowns._

_"Where did you get these shoes.?"_

_"You like em?"_

_"Ooky. They're grandma shoes. Like the ones in that coffin down..."_

_She stares at him wide-eyed,_

_"Oh my God! You didn't..."_

_"What?"_

_He laughs at her face as he twirls her round_

_"I'll put them back on her after."_

 

_"Let me do it."_

_"No."_

_Her face is angry and bright,_

_"Stop acting normal."_

_She zips herself up and steps away, mumbles under her breath._

_"It's...creepy."_

 

She's killing him and he can feel it, but he wants it too. Wants everything that she is. Thinks if he does turn to dust, to ashes, then maybe that's ok too, because he'll be on her skin, be all over her and that's where he wants to be. Wants to coat her skin, crawl inside her and sleep there, die there.

 

_"Deeper."_

_"...what?"_

_"Want you...deeper."_

_Her legs shift backwards, opening up to him, her throat naked and exposed as she rolls her head back, fixes him with eyes like dying stars._

_"All the way inside."_

_A gasp as he answers her, rocking with her, pushing so far into her that he's sure they're melting together now, fusing like molten metal._

_"Want you inside. Come inside me."_

_And just the words are enough to undo his will._

 

_"Why did you come back here?"_

_"You want me to go? I'll go."_

_Silence._

_"Just give me the word and I'll..."_

_"Oh shut up. Since when do you ever do as you're told."  
_

 

_"Is it bad?"_

_"No it's...he just caught me. It's no biggie."_

_"Better let me clean it up. S'right hand."_

_Her thumb traces his palm softly as he holds the hand tight._

_"S'ok. Doesn't hurt so much now."_

 

_"Spike, will you show the girls one or two quick throws...just so they..."_

_"Like that."_

_She's glaring at him, but the sparkle is there as he holds her pinned her to the earth._

_"Yeah. Like that."_

 

_"You know you could be a wicked short-order cook?"_

_"Rather than a wicked creature of the night you mean?"_

_She laughs through a mouthful of pancake,_

_"What? It's an honest living? Plus tips? With those cheekbones?"_

_Blushes when he looks at her,_

_"I'm just saying."_

 

Sound more than pictures now, voices, snatches of conversation. Somewhere he thought he heard the other one, Dawn's. His little Dawn. Muffled, querulous and sharp though, angry.

"When? I just don't see why I can't.."

And a man's, soothing and paternal.

"You know why. Just give them a while longer. Buffy'll come tell us when it's ok."

The room was dark and silent now, incredibly warm and he lay, listening to the night sounds outside. Traffic, and a few blocks away the low city-wail of a cop car. His eyelids shivered open and everything was midnight, deep dark shadows. Cloying velvet. His head felt lead heavy, but when he was finally able to shift it seemed the most natural thing in the world to find her beside him, one hand tucked up under her cheek for a pillow, eyes dark calm and still as she looked at him. She smiled.

"Hello stranger."

His skull hummed and throbbed but her voice was like a balm on it all, smoothing away at the edges and he smiled as well. Couldn't not when she looked at him like that. Like he was the night sky and she was a moonstruck hare.

"...hey."

His throat felt raw and scratchy, like tarmac, and he tried to clear it, tried to swallow and then she was lifting a glass to his lips. Ice-water slid over his tongue and he gasped a little, sighed from the relief of it. Leaning forward she removed the flannel laid over his forehead, turned it cool-side down against him. Her eyes glimmered in the street lamps as she moved back, tucked her head in a little closer to his, her long hair whispered on the pillow.

"You've been out all day. It's almost eleven-thirty."

He tried not to look at her lips but it was difficult when they were so close to his, and when she spoke they softened and glowed. Slowly she lifted a hand from her side, moved it to his face like before, only this time she didn't hesitate and the touch of her fingertips on his brow was as cool as milk. She frowned,

"God, you're like a furnace Spike."

Just the contact of her skin on his made him feel like purring, singing, covering her face with kisses. Couldn't understand it, but didn't want to analyse it either. Knew that he was safe now, that he was home with her, even if he had no idea where home was. Her fingers moved up tangling in his damp hair, and when she looked at him he saw tears shimmering again, threatening to spill out.

"I thought I'd lost you."

She swallowed, pressed a hand to his cheek and when he closed his eyes, stroked along the length of his eyebrow with her thumb.

"Your scar's gone. Did you know that?"

And then the hand was on his chest, laid against his heart. Cold, cold, and his bare skin burned against it, like she was ice and he was fire. Pressed hard against him, as if she wanted to feel the beat, reassure herself it was there. Opening his eyes she looked strange, confused and amazed and elated all the same time, as if she'd never heard a bloody heartbeat before.

"Willow told me but I didn't believe it."

She drew the hand along his chest, then laid it flat against his abdomen and watched it slowly rise and fall with his breathing.

"No one believes it. Giles says it's impossible. No vamp has ever..."

She blinked as if suddenly remembering something, went silent.

Just looking at her in the half-light made him feel giddy. That she could have been his, this beautiful, powerful shining girl, that he might have been hers. Everything he'd seen when he'd kissed her, a past between them that had blown through him like a bush fire, told him that that she was the one. The only.

Her head dipped down and she sank against him, head to his chest. Eye to his eye, her breath fluttering against his face, cooling him.

"They said you don't remember, but you do, don't you?"

She moved and her mouth brushed against his, the wraith of a kiss, and smiled against him when he responded, weakly at first and then with gentle ardour. Pulling her lips with his own. She sighed into him.

"You remember that don't you?"

Rolled her cheek against his, frowning gravely at the heat of him.

"Spike, something's wrong with you. You know that right?"

He sighed yes, although he didn't feel it, felt just perfect now.

"Willow thinks that whatever power that amulet used to make you human, it's got all messed up somehow. It's making you sick now and we don't know why."

His eyes were flickered closed and for a moment it was as if he was falling, then her voice grounded him again.

"We think it happened when I touched you. Do you remember that?"

A hand slid inside his, meshing fingers and he sighed again, because it felt so right, familiar.

"Do you remember what I said?"

A soft tentative tap at the door brought them back to reality and she bent, brushing his forehead with a kiss before sliding off the bed to answer it. Cracking it, yellow light spilled over the floor and he blinked painfully as he recognised the tall narrow frame of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce silhouetted. Bowing his head a little he looked past the girl's shoulder, frowned.

"How is he?"

Buffy folded her arms, turning her body slightly to block him from view.

"You're not welcome here Wesley."

"Buffy I..."

"When were you planning on telling me? You and Angel? Let me guess, it was for my own good right?"

"We just wanted to..."

"Protect me? That one's getting pretty old Wes, you should tell Angel he should try writing a few new ones."

"We wanted to be sure. We just wanted to be certain before we told you anything."

"O.K."

Her voice was hushed but cold, ice crystals in it. Her back ram-rod straight as she faced him down, eyes steady. She was a viking this girl of his, a valkyrie.

"You wanted to be sure before you told me what? That this wasn't the way it was supposed to play out? That this 'shanshu' thing, that was Angel's prize? That Spike has no right? Save it Wesley, I know all about it."

"No, I..."

Her hands were fists now, the nails biting down into the flesh of each palm.

"You think just because he hasn't spend the last two hundred years suffering for what he did, that he doesn't deserve this? Well, you're wrong. He deserves this."

She threw her hair back with a snap,

"We both do. And you know what? Even if I'd known what that amulet could do, I still would have chosen him to wear it. I still would have chosen Spike."

"No. No, I don't think you would have."

Wesley's face was pale and drawn as he stared back at her, helplessly he shook his head.

"He's dying Buffy, and we can't find any way to stop it."


	10. Hyperion Hotel (Part 3)

"Spike? Are you awake?"

It was the dream again, the one he'd almost forgotten now, but the sound of her voice brought it back. Cold cracked linoleum against his cheek and the smell of warm blood, her hand touching his face.

"Spike, wake up. It's me. Dawn."

And then she was solid, perched on the very edge of his reality, narrow shoulders tight with nervous fear. The long dark hair was just as he'd imagined, thick and glossy brown as a chestnut, pinned back at the sides with something pink. She was still a child, her skin could have told him that much, still the soft milk-rose hue on her, but there was an weariness there too that didn't match up exactly. The eyes staring down at him were huge, green and hazel, soft, solemn expression echoing the pretense of maturity, but when she saw he was awake it dropped away and she sighed.

"God, I thought maybe you were..."

Her gaze flicked to his apologetically and in that one look he got it all, everything he needed to know about who they were to each other. Friends. Confidants. Allies. Their own support system. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he grimaced and a grin broke at the corners of her too-wide mouth,

"Should have remembered. You always did sleep like a corpse."

She leaned forward, one hand slightly out, and seemed about to help him straighten up but then stopped, moved back an inch or so. He struggled weakly with the pillows, frowning, before realising why she'd hesitated. She was wearing surgical gloves.

"Those regulation?"

Following his look, she plucked at her hands awkwardly.

"Willow wouldn't let me in otherwise. She said you're...like really allergic."

Something faltered behind her eyes, and he realised she obviously hadn't been told everything; the reason for Wesley's late night visit, the real cause of his current condition. Clearing his throat, he eyed her cautiously, before nodding his head toward the door.

"She out there is she?"

"Willow? No she...they went to go meet Giles at the airport."

"Buffy too?"

A small nod, and then a drop of the eyes again, like she was guessing at something.

"I think they're going to find some friend of his, someone he thinks might be able to...help."

"Nother demon?"

A thin smile,

"No, just a...someone magic I think."

He grunted, shook his head a little.

"Magic..."

She curled her lip,

"Yeah, 'never the best option' right? I know you've never really been big on the whole hocus..."

Her sentence broke off, hung in mid air and she frowned at him, curiously.

"It's weird. Some things about you are the same."

"Wouldn't know."

She nodded, still frowning,

"No. But they are. You still talk the same. You look the same," she quirked an eyebrow at his hair, "Although I've never seen your roots before, that's new."

A hand drifted out towards him and he watched, remembering even as the odd resemblance struck him, that of course Dawn was really Buffy's sister not his. The hand dropped back into her lap.

"But you smell funny." she wrinkled her nose, "Not quite Spike."

"Different?"

"You used to smell like whisky and cigarettes," hesitated, "But not like ick...bad smell..."

She flushed slightly,

"Sometimes you smelled like earth."

"Earth? Like...dirt?"

Shrugged,

"More like...houseplant soil."

"Houseplant?"

A bright flash of mischief lit her face and she grinned,

"Although there was this one time when you smelt really strongly of violets for almost a whole week." she lowered her eyebrows, "I didn't like to ask."

He laughed, short and unexpected and her smile softened.

"You laugh the same."

Their eyes locked for a long moment and he could read everything in hers, thought maybe he could reclaim his whole life from what he could see there, all he needed to know about himself, about the sort of person he was. This girl knew him, knew him better than maybe anyone, understood what went on inside and out. He had no idea what they'd shared in the past, but he knew it had to have been something momentous, something complex to have brought them so close.

"Dawn?"

She nodded, seeming ready for the question even before he'd asked it.

"Were we always friends, you and me?"

Maybe not the question she was expecting after all. Her gaze dropped to her hands again and, pulling at the tip of one of her rubber fingers, she answered carefully.

"Not always, no."

She frowned,

"A few years ago, after Mom and...we were together a lot. I think maybe I was the only other person you could stand to be around. Everyone else was just...about being brave, you know? Pretending like nothing ever happened. You weren't like that."

"Not brave?"

A small smile at the memory,

"You were just...different. Like you weren't afraid to be sad. That's all."

There was so much he wanted to ask her, questions he knew she had to have the answers to, but before he could formulate anything she asked one of her own.

"What's happening to you?"

Letting herself drop down on her side on the bed, she rested her back against his knees, stared at the wall.

"No one will tell me."

The top of her head was motionless, arms pulled up tight against her chest.

"Are you dying?"

Something told him that she expected honesty, that she relied on it. Apparently, he had always been straight with her. He drew a breath.

"That's what they say."

A slight stiffening of her shoulders, then;

"Why?"

The need to touch her, smooth back her hair, was strong but he fought it.

"Something went wrong I reckon. Magic stuff. And now it's making me ill."

She started to speak, hesitated,

"Does it hurt?"

"Nope," he pushed at her with a toe, "Not any more. Just when they touched me, the...Willow and then your sis. Felt like my head was on fire."

Fingers moved up to grip her own upper arms, holding herself she shivered slightly. It was cool in the room but she felt warm enough, curled tight on the bed. His hand hovered, touched the air millimeters from her small, narrow back, before dropping silently back to the coverlet. She swallowed and turned her face towards him. Grave eyes, full of shadows that were ten years too old for her face.

"Maybe this friend of Giles'...maybe he'll know right away what's wrong. Buffy said not to worry."

"She look like she believe it?"

The girl's expression wavered uncertainly, before she nodded.

"She looked...determined."

"Guess I'm safe then."

The ghost of a smile echoed his own, pale and hopeful. Resting her head on his knees, she took hold of one of his feet through the covers.

"Buffy has some cards in her room. You want to play until they get back?"

He nodded, tried not to let her see how that touched him, tugged at some deep part of him, making him want to protect her, never let her out of his sight again. Getting up she started towards the door before turning back to him.

"Spike, I wanted to..."

She stopped, realising as she started to speak that he had no context for what she was about to say. That apologies and explanations were moot. Pushing her hair away from her face, she looked down at her feet. Tried to look at him.

"I never told you before, but you...you're important. To me I mean. You're...family. Just as much as Willow and Xander and Giles and..."

She dropped her gaze, eyes shining.

"I didn't tell you. And then, when you were gone I didn't know if you knew. I should have said before, but there wasn't...there never seemed to be the right time...you know?"

"Maybe there never is a right time, till it's too late."

Nodding she held his eyes for a second, before turning away.

"I'll go get the cards."

It was late afternoon when the sound of voices from downstairs alerted them both to Buffy's return. Glancing at him, Dawn went to lay her cards down flat on the coverlet, before hesitating and fanning them out again. Her expression was calm, no trace of the nervousness he was feeling, and he wondered at her again. Amazed that such a young kid could posses such a reserve of strength.

Halfheartedly assessing his own cards, he cleared his throat.

"Sounds like them back."

"Mmhm."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"So you going down and see what the news is?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Not especially."

Willow's voice, calling for Xander; the dark-haired bloke he'd met earlier when he'd put his head round the door to check on Dawn. Fellow had seemed pleasant enough, but there'd been an intensity in the way he'd looked at him which was unnerving. Like he didn't want to wish him ill, but couldn't quite help himself. The guy was obviously still hanging around, because now he could hear him calling back, footsteps sounding outside the door. It cracked open and he half-stepped inside.

"Uh...they're back. You ok for more visitors?"

"Might as well get it over with."

Wordlessly, Xander exited and after a moment or two his voice could be heard further away, down in the foyer, as he relayed the message. Silence, and then faintly Buffy's voice, sounding strained and weary. Gathering up the cards, Dawn's face was hidden from view, but he could tell by her movements that her cool was finally nearing breaking point.

"Hey..."

Gently touching a fingertip to her shoulder, he took care not to make contact with any exposed skin.

"Maybe they couldn't find him."

A soft tap at the door and then there she was, his girl, and if he'd had any doubts at all about the outcome of today's little excursion her expression now told him everything. Stepping inside, she exchanged a silent glance with Dawn, before moving past her and sitting down on the bed. Reaching for his hand she wrapped her own through it, meshed.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

She smiled,

"You're looking better."

The unspoken question hung between and she faltered, looked over at the night stand instead.

"You teaching my baby sister poker?"

"We were playing Old Maid."

Dawn's voice was soft, a little resentful.

"I already know poker remember. Mom taught me."

"Aha."

Buffy's eyes drifted back to his, secrets in them, dark and painful, and without looking away from her he spoke gently.

"Why don't you go wait outside Dawn."

A small sigh, and her sister turned and left with the click of a latch, leaving them alone.

The voices downstairs slowly bled away to a soft murmur and, looking down at their hands intertwined, he smiled. Her small palm barely covered half of his, but the strength dormant in them was incredible. She was a strong woman, in many more ways than one, he only hoped he could be just as strong for her.

"So...something tells me that champagne isn't in order."

Her gaze shifted on him, shining darkly.

"Hey. Spike, it was only one option, and there are plenty more. Giles is working on it right now and you know how..."

She blinked, remembering that, of course, he didn't.

"Well, he doesn't give up easily. Neither does Willow. Between the two of them they'll fix this, they'll find a way. I'm sure of it."

"Work miracles can they?"

He hadn't meant his tone to sound so cynical, but he couldn't help himself and, releasing his hand, Buffy sighed.

"They have. In the past. Willow has...she's incredibly powerful. If there's a way to save you..."

"Like she saved your Mom you mean?"

Flinching at that, she drew back.

"That was different. She was..."

"Sick? I saw some of those printouts the girl brought back with me. Maybe some mystic magical spell made me ill to start with, but those holes in my brain looked pretty damn real to me."

Catching at his arms, her eyes flickered with fire.

"O.K, so you're ill. Since when does that mean you just give up? You never give up, never. I've seen you so bloody and busted up you couldn't even speak, Jesus I've seen you burned, tortured, sliced open, I've seen you so messed up I didn't recognise you. You always fought back. You're the stubbornest person I know Spike."

She frowned, gave him the ghost of a smile.

"Now's not the time to go all Richard Dreyfuss on me."

"Richard Dreyfuss?"

"It's this movie where the guy..." she sighed, rolled her eyes, "Never mind, the point is that I need you to be strong. We'll find a way to make you better but in the mean time you just have to hang in there. "

She touched his wrist,

"Just be the same big brave pigheaded bad ass I fell in love with, okay?"

Her fingers on his arm stilled, and the moment stretched out for a long time before he realised that she wasn't going to speak again. Tracing his palm with one fingertip she smiled softly to herself and let the silence drift on, listening to his breathing, her head craned ever so slightly forward as she did so. Watching her, he was overwhelmed again, her face was so full of awe, enraptured by the simple fact of his life. A full minute passed before she finally dropped forward, nesting her head gently into the crook of his neck, one hand splayed out over his chest. Closing his eyes, he touched his lips to her hair.

"Before...I ever tell you you were amazing?"

He felt her smile against his throat,

"Yes."

"Did I say it like I meant it?"

She moved in closer,

"Always."

A feather light kiss just below his ear and he shivered. She moved downwards a little,

"I didn't always believe you though."

"Why not?"

Another kiss, lower at the base of his throat.

"I don't think I wanted to."

Touching her lips to his jaw, she met his eyes. Calm, serious expression.

"You saw everything didn't you? When you touched me I mean? Everything that happened with us."

He nodded, drawing in a breath at the memories, still fresh, and she answered him with a small frown.

"We were...cruel to each other, for a long time. I was..."

Her hand on his chest tightened a little, reflexively,

"We hurt each other a lot. But then you changed, and after a while you made me...better."

The kiss trailed up from his jaw to his lips and she breathed into him, sunshine and warm summer air.

"You make me better."

Tasting her mouth, he felt himself responding, warm and sweet, hand sliding up her back under her cotton vest, the muscles underneath her skin moving like silk. Without breaking the kiss she reached down for the covers, lifting her legs and sliding in beside him. He paused, breathing a little harder as she leant back, twisted the vest-top up and over her head before moving back in again. Her kisses were more urgent now but, sensing his hesitance she paused, laid a hand over his hip bone.

"You ok?"

His head was thumping crazily as he tried to reply, tried to catch his breath. Everything about her felt electric, but he knew instinctively that it wasn't the spell this time, wasn't magic making him feel like he was burning up inside. He swallowed, reached to trace the line of her breast.

"Yeah, I'm just..."

And then laughed at her expression, responding to his touch. Laughed at just the pure wonder of it, that this girl could want him, love him and that he loved her back.

"We've done this before, right? I mean...loads of times?"

Pulling his mouth to her own she smiled as she kissed him, shook her head.

"Never. We've never done this before."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

They slept for a good long time afterwards, and it felt both completely unfamiliar and right at the same time. Her body twined through his, her breath fluttering in the hollow of his throat, one leg still cushioned between his own. Waking, he gently tried to extricate the arm she was resting her head on and she smiled sleepily, rolled over on her other side and tucked herself tight in against him instead. The nape of her neck was damp with sweat, and where the blonde hair ended her roots were darker than his.

"You dye your hair."

A small soft chuckle,

"Look who's talking!"

Her hand reached back for his arm, slid it over her hip to cup her breast. Splaying his fingers, he could feel her heartbeat, smooth and languorous, like his own. Pushing her shoulders back she hummed softly in her throat.

"MMmmm. Now if there are chili dogs for supper, I'd say this might be my best day yet."

He laughed, drawing her in closer, fitting her to him.

"We could order in. Tell them it's strictly medicinal. A dying man's last wish."

Her back stiffened slightly, and he realised even before she pulled away that he just broken the spell. Sliding out of his arms she sat upright, pulled a hand backwards through her long tangled hair. Her movement had taken her less than a few inches or so away, but the distance between them already seemed too much. He reached for her and silently she let him run his hand up her naked back to her shoulder. Dropping her head to one side, she kissed his fingertips softly,taking her time, as if she was committing every part of them to memory. After a moment or two, she spoke.

"You know, I stopped believing in God."

"Yeah?"

She smiled sadly, tilted her head back towards him.

"As a person, a...being? Yeah. I mean I know there are demons, and that there's evil out there, even a First Evil. But a First Good?" she shrugged, "It just doesn't have the same ring to it."

"So what is there?"

He eyes closed as his palm slid downwards again, tracing the curve of her spine, the dip at the front of her hip bone. She sighed,

"I think there's love. And trust. Friendship."

She turned back to him,

"And there's beauty."

"There is that."

Her skin shone golden in the dying light of the summer day outside, touching off tiny highlights in her hair.

"But maybe that's all there is."

"Maybe."

She stilled again, one hand gently tracing a pattern on the flat plane of his stomach. Watching her, he couldn't tell what was going on inside, but he wondered at it, thought maybe he'd could be happy wondering forever.

"Buffy, I'm..."

Her fingers slowed, palm spread again over his heart.

"Spike, if I lost you again, I'm not sure I could hold it together this time. For Dawn I mean," she frowned, "For anyone. I've had so much taken from me, I don't know how much more there is to give. I used to think I could go on forever, but I can't. I don't want to. Not alone."

"You aren't alone..."

Her frown deepened, and she shook her head.

"The Slayer's always alone, remember? There might be more of us now, but that much hasn't changed. I have my friends, my sister, someday I might even have somewhere I can call home again, but that doesn't change what's always going to be missing. When you died, there was so much you gave me, everything I could ever want, but you never thought about who I was going to share it with. You wanted to give me everything, but you forgot the one thing I really needed."

She lifted her face up to look at him,

"I want you with me Spike, or it's no deal."

A knock broke the intense silence following her words and, without speaking, Buffy slid off the bed, wrapping the sheet around her as she did so. Barefoot, she padded over to the corner of the room, putting an eye to the peephole. Willow's voice was barely above a whisper, but he could hear the excited urgency of her tone even through the locked door.

"Buffy, it's me!"

Glancing over to make sure he was respectable, Buffy slid the latch to let her in, and unable to contain her enthusiasm her friend started talking almost at once.

"OK, I'm not sure how it's going to work, but we think it will. Only thing is we have to do it tonight. Giles thinks that our best chance has to be when Mercury is in retrograde and apparently that window closes in just under, "she checked her watch, "Just under uh...five hours."

"Whoa, slow down! What window? Whose window?"

"Spike's. If we wait until daybreak, it's likely we'll only have a forty-two percent chance of getting it just right," she raised an eyebrow, "Although, that's just Fred's calculation and I didn't like to tell her but she may be out by anything up to three decimal..."

"Will, are you going to explain any of this? Or will there be notes available afterwards?"

Her friend shook her head, closing her eyes as if to steady herself.

"Sorry, we've been working on it all day, I forgot..."

She swallowed, face bright with nervous elation.

"It wasn't even my idea, it was Xander's. We were talking about magic and about Anya and it just...clicked. Anya's spell, the one she made me help her with...for her necklace, to bring it back from the last time and place it'd been."

"You're going to try and bring back the amulet?"

"No, we have the amulet, we can't bring it to a place it already is. Time paradox remember? It can't exist here if it wasn't there then."

Buffy's blank expression seemed to confuse her, and she blinked wide eyed.

"Where the heck were you that whole semester? Did you miss every single physics class?"

"Will, just tell me what's happening."

"A temperal fold."

Her friend's eyes glowed with excitement,

"We create a temporal fold, a biggish one, bigger than Anya's anyway, big enough to send Spike back to the last time he was...just before everything went kablooey."

"And then what?"

"And then...nothing!"

Something was dawning behind Buffy's eyes, he could see it. The strange thing was he'd figured out what the witch was saying about three sentences ago.

"So you're saying that this time...I just do this whole amulet thing right? Follow the instructions and no one gets hurt?"

Willow nodded, eyes still on Buffy, waiting for her reaction, but her friend stayed silent.

"And afterwards I'll be ok? 100% healthy? No screaming flashbacks and holes in the brain?"

"You'll be fine."

Something about her tone was off, too careful, too precise, and the way she wasn't looking at him when she spoke, that wasn't good either. There was something he wasn't getting here and, even as it came to him, he felt his heart sink.

"I won't be me though will I?"

From behind her, he saw Buffy shoulders stiffen slightly, Willow's eyes full of kindness as she touched her friend's arm, regarding him solemnly as she did so.

"Not this time," a faint hopeful smile, "But you'll be alive. That was how it was supposed to go Spike. You weren't supposed to remember. You were supposed to start again."

Without turning, Buffy took a seat again on the edge of the bed. Her face in profile told him nothing. Reaching out for her hand, he pulled her backwards into his arms and she let him. Let him stroke her hair back from her face.

Taking a step away, Willow lowered her eyes,

"I'll be...downstairs. Just...let me know when you're ready."

and quietly, she let herself out.

Then there was just their breathing again, and the sounds of the traffic outside, muted as the evening drew in. Wrapping his arms around her, he wondered if she could hear his thoughts now, knew what he was going to say. Because if she couldn't, then how would she have known to tell him;

"You have to."

"Why?"

"You know why Spike."

"Buffy..."

"You don't have a choice."

"No?"

"No."

Her voice was small but strong. As strong as she was. Her fingers curled around his hand.

"If you love me you'll do this."

A pause.

"Do you love me Spike?"

"I do."

He pulled her a little closer, felt her heart as it missed a beat, jumping under his palm.

"I'll be ok."

"Will you?"

"Eventually."

_:: you forgot the one thing I really needed. I want you with me Spike, or it's no deal ::_

Her eyes found his, and if he hadn't known better he'd have believed every word she said.

"I'll survive. I always do."


	11. Hyperion Hotel (Part 4)

This time, he knows he will remember. Everything. He has to. Because without it, without her, how can he be? She is inside him now, folded in and out, indiscernible, his soul branded with the image of her face, the shape of her body haloed in the yellow light as she stands in the doorway. The slight, familiar slip of her shoulders, the curve of her lower back, all these things are real and solid to him now, and he is unable to accept that they will fade, melt through his fingers like snow. Closing his eyes his finds her there and holds her, tight, tight, knows that no one, nothing can take her from him again. Tells himself that over and over while she watches him from a few feet away, eyes drifting over his face.

"Are you ready?"

Her voice was the same of course, soft and calm, but now he knew it, more than knew, he understood everything that had shaped the way she was. He saw her and saw through the perfectly composed exterior to the glittering fragile creature inside.

_::please don't make this any harder than it is::_

Pushing himself off the bed he stood, felt around on the floor for his boots in a kind of daze. When his fingers closed over the second one, he paused for long moment before pulling it on.

"So what do you think'll happen afterwards?"

Her stillness was eerie, her whole body seeming frozen in a casual pose that was anything but. She shook her head slightly.

"I don't know. You'll just wake up...like before I guess...only this time..."

"This time there'll be nothing left."

Her expression tightened,

"There'll be everything left. Everything. You'll have another chance to..."

"To what? Live? Spare me..."

Pulling the straps tight he shoved his toe down hard into the ground.

"All this stuff I supposedly did? Saving the world, being the big hero, you'd think I'd at least get a choice in the matter. Get to decide whether I remember or don't. Seems to me my reward for saving the world is losing it."

He saw her move at last, unfreezing. Taking a step back towards him, she sat down on the corner of the bed.

"I don't know."

Her expression was guarded, wary of his reaction to what she was about to say, and he frowned.

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know if..." she stopped, "I think maybe it's right."

He tried not to gape then, to stare at her in horror, but the pain was suddenly acute, a cold fist squeezing his heart.

"Right...that I forget you?"

Her hand reached for his but he pulled away, still in shock. Pained she reached for him again, captured his fingers and dragged him down beside her.

"That's not what I meant. How could you even..." she shook her head, "I meant that I know what it's like to have to live with pain. And I know how hard it was for you to live with the memories of what happened to you, what you've done. You changed everything to become a better man, but you couldn't change who you'd been."

Her gaze pulled at his, and love and respect for her strength and wisdom overwhelmed him again. Leaning forward he touched his lips to her hair-line, saw her smile as she leant into him, her hand twisting to nest inside his.

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"If this time loop thingy goes right and we go back to the start again - you won't remember anything either. About this I mean, about what's happened to me. You'll think I'm dead all over again."

She stiffened a little, pulling back.

"Spike, I told you..."

"I know, 'you'll survive'."

"I did." she said simply, "I will again. I know what I said before, but you shouldn't worry about me. 'The Slayer forges strength from pain'. And I want this for you. I want you to live."

Her hand lifted to his face, smoothing back a curl that had fallen into his eyes,

"That's what I think _you_ deserve."

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Watching Fred put the finishing touches to their carefully mapped pentangle on the floor of the foyer, Willow was trying her very hardest not to look as nervous as she felt, and she was failing miserably. Ever since she had assured Buffy that 'a simple temporal fold' would solve all their problems, she'd been fighting tummy butterflies the size of fruit bats. 'Cause, just where did she get off being so darned blasé about the laws of temporal physics and the theories of relative dimensions anyway? What had happened to the classic Rosenberg reserve of old, the need for constant checking and rechecking of the facts before jumping right on in there with both feet? Sure she was confident it would work but, heck, what if it didn't? Had she even really considered that fact? The hundreds of possible messy, bizarre and ultimately catastrophic ways in which she could spectacularly fail? Had her brain even really dealt with the likelihood that, by messing with the events of the last apocalypse, she might actually cause not only Spike's death but everyone else's too? Preventing their victory over the Turok H'an and making Buffy's hellish vision of a future ruled by Über-Vamps a reality?

A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and she swallowed noisily. OK, way to go over the top, let's not get carried away hey? Just a teensy little temporal fold after all! How hard could it be to get right and, forcing herself to relax, she checked the time again before darting a surreptitious glance at her other assistant.

Seeming perfectly calm, Giles was poring over the text of the spell they'd found, mouthing the words silently as he inscribed the translation into the pages of his notebook. Becoming aware of her scrutiny he looked up, and after a second gave her a reassuring nod.

"It all seems fairly straightforward. I mean...the syntax is a little...jumbled in places but I don't think we should have any problems."

Her poise finally disintegrating, Willow's shoulders slumped, eyebrows drawing together in an anguished frown.

"You say that and see...now I'm thinking you really shouldn't have said that. You know how we always say things like that and then..."

Her flailing hands described an explosion of epic proportions, and rolling his eyes Giles quietly closed the book.

"Willow, two weeks ago I saw you work perhaps the most powerful act of sorcery that this world has ever seen, with the only side-effect being a few white hairs. You are entirely capable of this and we all have every faith in you."

"You do?"

"We do."

Her smile flickered briefly and he returned it again, before bending his head patiently back to his task. Envying his composure, Willow wished she'd taken his earlier advice when he'd suggested she take time to relax and focus her energies, instead of fussing and dithering in what she thought of as classic pre-Magic-Willow fashion. Sucking in a deep breath she tried to envisage her power centre; the white glowing light she could draw all the power and strength she needed from, felt it suffuse her with the sure knowledge that everything would be fine. Yes. She had only to stay calm, trust in her own power and that of the Earth and let herself become one with its gentle rhythm. Trust in the good of the strength she knew it would afford her. Opening her eyes with a beatific smile, she was startled to find herself staring directly into the pale, nervous face of Fred.

"OK, don't be mad but I may have gone a bit crazy with the sacred sand. We're all out and I still have another two feet to go," the jittery girl grinned at her a little unsteadily, "And is it just me, or is anyone else real scared we're going to screw this all up?"

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It never rained in California.

He couldn't remember who'd sung the song now, but listening to the faint familiar tune emanating from the car's stereo, Angel had a faint uncomfortable feeling that he may have even bought the single. It'd been during the whole seventies period when he'd actually started feeling a little good about himself again. The cravings had been pretty much under control, he'd found a fairly reliable and relatively understanding butcher and, aside from the reoccurring and horrific nightmares, he was finally managing some kind of semi-human existence. He hadn't had friends of course, no one who knew him by sight even, he'd always been careful to avoid frequenting any area of the city for longer than a week at a time. Humans were curious creatures, and he'd come to realize that a tall, dark handsome vigilante tended to provoke more than just a sideways glance from most.

During that period though, he'd found himself drawn to a particular place, a particular district of the city more and more. A small, dimly-lit record store just off the strip that opened its doors at 8pm exactly every single night. It was a quiet little place at first, but word of its unusual opening times soon got around. Kids with nowhere else to go at night but the streets, began to gravitate there as soon as they'd hooked up with the rest of their gang. Hanging in groups of ten or more around the entrance, 'Dinny's Discography' slowly became less of a meeting place and more a kind of alternative club land for post-pubescents.

Maybe it was because of this that Dinny, the middle-aged store owner, had actively welcomed the company of the pale monosyllabic loner; his faint nod of acknowledgement slowly becoming a smile and then finally a friendly greeting. For the first time in years the vampire had given someone his true name and, after a week or so more, had actually felt moved to ask for one in return. The small act of trust had brought him out in a cold sweat of fear and confusion, but it seemed little enough payment for what 'Dinny's' accorded him. Night after night Angel would stand, headphones jammed over his ears, toe tapping faintly to the beat of whatever was making the charts that week, and for just a few hours he would feel normal, part of something else. People came and went, young girls in those skinny hot-pants that were the thing that year, guys in their bell-bottoms, and he wouldn't even notice their smell, wouldn't even see them. Closing his senses to anything but the music, he'd stand and listen to 'The Bee Gees', 'Yes', to 'Barry Manilow', soaking in the warm, technicolor love of a generation, until he felt the inevitable tap on his shoulder that told him that his time was finally up.

Then, one weekend in late November of that year the little store had closed down, and after a week or two a place that sold brightly colored handbags moved into the vacant lot. Staring through the darkened window at night, Angel had found himself consumed with an inexplicable cold, black rage that had bent him double to vomit in the gutter. Whether it was the disgust he felt at his own pathetic weakness - for the still human part of him that had craved a tenuous connection with life - he wasn't certain, but later he'd climbed the fence of a park petting-zoo and killed a young deer, dragging it down by the throat and slaughtering it like the animal he knew he truly was. The next day he'd hopped a train south to New Orleans, and hadn't felt the need to return to L.A until five years had passed and the memory of his momentary aberration was well and truly dead.

Now, snapping off the radio, Angel couldn't help but wonder at the strength of emotions a simple tune could still dredge up in him. Like nearly all of his memories, it was one best left buried deep and, pushing the convertible to an even more hair-raising speed, his expression hardened once more into one of stoic determination. Running a red light at sixty, he barely glanced at the Volvo that fishtailed out into traffic behind him, horn blaring. Instead he stared grimly through the rear-view mirror at the empty back seat reflected there. Slapped the stickshift up into fifth and took the last corner at a harsh 45º degree angle, gritting his teeth as he glanced briefly down at his wrist. His time was almost up, and for maybe only the second time in his entire wretched life, he actually had somewhere he had to be.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"OK, where are they? My watch says ten to eleven already. Does yours? Am I fast?"

Rising wearily from his seat on the couch, Xander checked his own wrist to confirm and then gave his best friend a placatory smile.

"It's OK, I'll go find them..."

Willow shook her head,

"No. No, it's..." she swallowed nervously, "It's fine. We still have a few minutes."

Sitting back down Xander leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Probably just saying their goodbyes."

"I guess."

"Or she's wishing him luck."

"Mm hmm."

"You don't think they're..." he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"No!" she darted a sharp look at him, "They'll be here."

Checking her watch yet again, she patted her pockets to reassure herself that she had everything she needed and her brow furrowed a little as she realized she'd left the good luck charm Kennedy had bought her upstairs in her bedroom. It was just a silly little thing, no power whatsoever, but she'd promised her faithfully she'd wear it against her heart every day until they were together again, and now she'd gone and left it on the nightstand. She frowned again, more deeply. So ok, what the hell did that mean?

"What's a matter? You getting the 'Colly-Wobbles'?"

"What does that even mean?"

"No idea. It's some Brit thing."

Turning, Xander stared across the foyer at the empty staircase.

"What do you say to someone in a situation like that anyway? I mean it's not like either of them are going to remember anyway. Spike'll be 'the man with no name' again, and Buffy'll be..." he pursed his lips a little, "Either way, he gets off easy."

"Xander!"

Willow's voice was soft and reproachful, and he turned back to look at her.

"Well he does."

"He still loses Buffy."

"Yeah, but he won't know that."

His friend's eyes searched his sadly before dropping to the ground. She sighed,

"I just wish it could have turned out differently. For all of us."

Looking away again, Xander's face hardened,

"Yeah well it didn't. And it won't."

Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out again slowly,

"Not all mistakes can be put right with magic. Some of us have to live with that."

Tapping softly on the door of Dawn's room, Giles hesitated on the threshold before slowly pushing it open. At first glance the place was empty but, turning to leave, he caught a glimpse of one of her blue Keds lying on the bathroom floor. As he watched it the toe shifted slightly, pulling back out of sight.

"Dawn?"

He could hear her breathing, a little unsteady and throaty as if she'd been crying hard, and he leaned in closer against the wall. He'd guessed that she would be hiding somewhere from everyone. Despite all the growing up she'd done over the last year, her emotions at times like this were still beyond her control, and the need to hide that fact from her sister and her friends was of the utmost importance to her. Smiling sadly to himself, Giles wondered if she knew how much more of an adult that made her seem to him.

"I think you should come downstairs."

There was a soft choking sound, like a dry laugh, and the Ked reappeared again.

"What if I don't want to? Are you going to make me?"

Putting his head around the corner he found the girl hunched awkwardly on the floor between the sink and the toilet, her legs drawn up against her chest. Her face, mottled and blotchy with tears, was filled with a kind of hopeless defiance.

"Well?"

Quietly, Giles stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. The little bathroom was barely big enough for one person let alone two and, leaning back against the door he tried not to look as if he found the whole situation ridiculous.

"Why don't you want to?"

Dawn's eyes widened and she started to laugh again, incredulous and pained. Stopped.

"Maybe because I can't think of what to say?"

"To Spike?"

Her jaw tightened, as if she'd detected something in his tone she didn't altogether like.

"Yeah, to Spike," her eyes dropped to stare at the floor, "I mean it's not as if it matters anyway. It's not as if he'll remember anything I say, or anything anyway."

"It might make you feel better."

He smiled, meaning to sound conciliatory, but the look she gave him made him uncomfortable.

"Yeah, but then you see, that doesn't really matter either, 'cause once he's gone none of this will have happened anyway will it? Everything since we left Sunnydale gets all bent back on itself. Back to square one right? And we all start over."

Surprised, Giles paused a moment before nodding.

"Except everything will still be gone and he and Anya will be just as..." she stumbled, tears spilling out down her cheeks and without thinking Giles reached down for her, pulling her into his arms. Smoothing her hair back from her face, he rubbed her back in small soft circles, wondering yet again at the deeply paternal feelings Dawn always inspired in him; the need to protect and shelter her as strong that for her sister at the same age. Helplessly, he repeated the words he always did in these kind of situations.

"It'll be OK. Don't worry, everything will be alright".

Dawn pulled back to stare at him,

"But it never is though Giles," a small pale smile tugged at her lips, "How come it never is?"

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

Seated, she thought, completely out of sight at the top of the staircase, Faith started a little as Wesley suddenly dropped down beside her. Her former Watcher seemed to take great delight in catching her off guard these days, and covering her surprise to see him she turned her head slightly to one side. Gave him her patented slow 'n' easy smile.

"Thought you'd be busy up at Hell Incorporated? Don't your guys have something to say about all this?"

"Our guys?"

Faith arched an eyebrow,

"The suits. Aren't they even interested in what's going on done here? Wiccagal about to send time all freaky and shit."

"Why should they be?"

His cool tone confused her a little and she shrugged, turned back to watch what the others were doing down in the foyer. Xander didn't seem to be helping much and Willow was starting to look pissed at him, couldn't quite catch what they saying though. Maybe he didn't think this was such a good idea either. Wesley cleared his throat, and she looked across at him from the corner of her eye.

"No, if there's anything I've come to realize about the Senior Partners, it's that they're nothing if not fatalistic. It's actually rather disturbing," he frowned, "Almost as if nothing we do matters."

Faith shrugged again,

"What's so disturbing about that?"

He shot her an irritable look and she grinned back at him provocatively,

"Well shit! If nothing we do matters, it doesn't matter what we do right? Can smack who we like, fuck who we like, drink and fucking eat what ever we like? Hell, it sounds like heaven to me!"

"And no matter what we try to do to change it, the events in our future cannot be prevented. Innocent people will still suffer and die, our friends will still be taken from us one by one, and we will hunt the same evil and it, in turn, will hunt us until the end of time."

Slowly, Faith's smile wavered and died.

"OK, way to make with the upside."

He raised an eyebrow at her and, despite her annoyance, she had to fight a sudden desire to kiss him smack on the lips. Wesley confused the hell out of her. One minute he'd been some prissy English guy - who'd barely seemed able to lift a sword let alone use it - the next he was this sinewy shotgun-toting dish, with a set of abs she would dearly love to savour up close. Just looking at his jaw made her hot, the way the muscle in it twitched deliciously when he was angry or holding something back from her. Downstairs, Willow was speaking softly to Fred now, their heads bowed and secretive as they discussed what was to come.

"You think she'll be able to pull it off?"

Wesley half nodded, looking down at them.

"The temporal fold?" he said softly, "Oh yes, I'm sure it's well within her capabilities?"

"And the other stuff?"

"Stuff?"

"Whatever this stuff is you know is coming, that you so obviously don't want to talk about right now?"

Faith eyed him steadily, and saw the familiar mixture of trepidation and stoicism flit across his face as he looked back at her. He opened his mouth as if to deny her words, but then shut it again.

"That I'm not so sure of."

Letting her shoulder fall back against him again, she let her weight rest there, letting his body support her, felt him do the same. Smiled.

"Hey, what ever it is, we'll be ready right?"

The man who had once been her Watcher smiled grimly.

"I'm sure we will," he said.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

"OK!"

Breathing a great sigh of relief, Willow jumped to her feet as she saw Buffy and Spike finally appear at the top of the stairs. There were just a few more minutes to spare but, despite her earlier nerves, she now felt fully prepared to work the spell and control the power she knew she was about to unleash. Both her assistants had disappeared a few minutes before - who knew where - but since when did she need their help anyway? Grabbing her spell book from the front desk she advanced on her two friends with the look of a Wicca determined to make good.

A second or two later, Giles, his arm around Dawn's shoulder, emerged from the shadows behind them and, after exchanging a brief look with Faith and Wesley, all six made their way downstairs. From one of the upstairs side-corridors Xander stepped out, followed a few minutes later by Fred. Slowly, everyone descended, drawn from every corner of the room to the very centre of the pentangle, and as they gathered an intense heavy silence seemed to blanket them. All the sounds of the hotel, traffic, ticking clocks, seemed to melt away and the air around them shifted and swam.

"Weird," Xander's voice was strangely muffled, as if he was talking from inside a box, "Is it supposed to do this?"

"Do what?" Spike's words too were swallowed and he started in surprise.

"The circle's already begun focusing the power for the creation of the portal," Willow explained, her voice also dampened by the invisible wall around them. She shrugged casually, "All I have to do is direct it where and when."

"Right," rolling her eyes, Faith took a step or two backwards towards the office, "So should we be standing right in it then?"

Fred smiled at her reassuringly,

"Oh, it's quite safe. Right up until Willow says..." she flushed as she realized that everyone, without exception, was staring at her in horror, "...until Willow says the word."

Her friend nodded, opening her book,

"OK, so we should really get started."

Nine pairs of eyes exchanged looks of wary unease, and then slowly all but three of them receded to the edges of the room. Left in the centre, Buffy and Spike stood close together - painfully aware of the fact that their fingers were still firmly intertwined. After a long moment Willow cleared her throat softly,

"Umm Buffy? Once the portal's fully opened no one can be inside the circle but us two," she looked down at their hands and then at both of them, "You're going to have to..."

Neither of them answered, but slowly her friend's grip on Spike's hand lessened. His eyes widened, reaching for her and she stepped back a little.

"You have to go now."

"Wait, I didn't"

She smiled painfully,

"Yes, you did. It doesn't matter."

Brokenly, he smiled back, his hand down dropping to his side. A soft intake of breath,

"Guess I'll maybe see you around then pet."

Her hand swiped roughly at her tears, "I'll be keeping my eyes open."

"You do that. Take care of Dawn."

The pain in his chest refused to allow any more words and, wrenching his eyes away from her face, Spike turned to face Willow and smiled shakily.

"O.K then, lets get it over with."

Nodding, Willow solemnly bowed her head, opened her lips and spoke one single word aloud,

"Kú-chí," and then another in an entirely different tone, "Angel!"

Surprised, Spike raised his eyebrows as a shivering circle of light sprang to life behind her.

"Really? 'Angel's the magic word? Bit of a coincidence."

"No look! Angel!"

Turning to follow her gaze, Spike frowned as he saw the vampire in question burst through the hotel's front door, his leather coat billowing out behind him.

Despite his instinctive dislike of the guy, he couldn't help but acknowledge the coolness of the entrance, or the skilful way in which he slid to one side to duck Buffy's lightning quick attempt to stop him. The murderous look on his face though, as he leapt straight through the crackling field of energy starting to surround them, that was the part he wasn't so sure about.


	12. Hellmouth

Before he even had to time to think, the vampire was on him.

Grabbing at his lapels and lifting him into the air in one effortless movement, Angel stared up into his face with undisguised venom. His eyes narrowed, flashing from brown to gold, and for the first time in his relatively short memory Spike understood exactly what it felt like to be something's prey. Smiling, his captor shifted his grip a little, hoisting him higher and suddenly his fear turned to fury.

"Oi! Put me down you pillock!"

Angrily he pulled at the larger man's hands, aiming a kick at his groin. Moving his body slightly to one side, the vampire only shook his head, making a soft tutting sound. Outside the circle he could see Buffy's face, angry and confused as she silently rained blows on the invisible barrier now surrounding them. Looking her way, Angel frowned,

"Can you believe that? She's actually worried about you!"

He shook his head,

"I just don't get it you know. I mean you give up _everything_ for a woman. You give _her_ up because you think she deserves _so much better_ , and then the guy she chooses..." - a cold laugh - "The guy she chooses is _everything_ you know she doesn't need and more."

His grip shifted to Spike's shoulders, still holding him up a foot or so above the ground, but less painfully. Pushing his face in closer to his captive audience, he glared at him.

"I mean, let's not pretend I was ever kidding myself about it, I always knew there was never going to be a happy ending, not for the two of us anyway. But for her? Sure Finn was a jerk, and I'm pretty sure that whole virginal 'farm-boy' thing was an act, but hey! He really seemed to _care_ about her, and _at least his organs weren't necrotizin_ g."

"What the hell!"

"And then there's this whole prophecy gig I've been holding out for. 'The vampire with a soul will shanshu after the great battle'. I mean it's not too much to ask for is it? Forty years maybe of mortality in exchange for _a hundred_ years suffering for something _I couldn't even control_ , and you know the real kicker is, I don't _even care_ anymore if it's with Buffy or not. I'm past caring. I'd settle for nothing. _Anything!_ Just something other than this..." his eyes flitted out and around him, taking in the hotel, the city, his whole surroundings, "...this endless parade of crap, day in and day out. 'What do we do Angel?', 'How do we fight it, Angel?', 'Hey, are you _evil_ again, Angel?', 'Who's _Connor_ , Angel?'"

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed.

"You tell yourself that it's all gonna end, someday. Someday you'll have something else, some kind of peace maybe or at least a life that isn't just..."

Resigned now to being held aloft forever, Spike finally stopped struggling and drew a deep hissing breath of discomfort. If the big glowery twat was going to kill him he wished he'd just get on with it and stop trying to get him to empathize. Weakly he lifted his arms from his sides,

"So what? You're jealous? Is that what you're saying?"

"What I'm saying is that this is _mine_ , Spike. You took what's mine and I want it back."

"Uh...excuse me?"

A soft but perfectly reasonable voice interrupted and they both turned their heads abruptly, surprised to discover that Willow was still standing quietly by, the spell book still spread open in her hands.

"But just what makes this whole 'shanshu' thing any more yours than his?" her eyebrows lifted slightly in curiosity, "I mean the prophesy said 'a vampire with a soul' right, did it mention anything else?" she shrugged, "Hair color maybe? Weight? Vital statistics?"

"Not exactly."

"And to qualify for it, he just had to _help_ save the world? Just be there? Helping out?" she shook her head slightly, "'Cause, you know, I don't really remember, I mean there was a lot going on and everything, what with the dying and bloodshed butdid I see you? I mean I remember _Spike_ being there"

Her expression was coolly innocent, but her tone was ironic.

"I mean he _did_ let himself get all burned up to save the world? I mean I didn't just imagine that, right? He was actually _there_ during the 'great battle'?"

"Yeah. Yeah he _was_." Angel's grip shifted and he finally lowered Spike to the ground. Eyeing him coldly, he drew in a deep weary breath. "It just turns out that the 'great battle', wasn't so much the 'final' one."

Preoccupied with the throbbing pain in his shoulders, it took Spike a moment or two to register what had been said, but when it finally did he stared up the vampire complete disbelief. The bloke couldn't be serious, but what was it Padgett had said before; twenty-four armageddons and counting?

 

_::None planned for the next few weeks then?_

_Not as far as we know::_

 

And he'd thought he was just fucking around.

"So what? There's going to be _another_ apocalyptic battle between good and evil?"

Angel nodded slowly, and he saw Willow's hands drop limply to her sides. She let out a low whimper,

"Just a small apocalypse though, right? A mini one?"

"That part's still a little hazy," at least he had the decency now to look a little apologetic, "Although judging by the condition of our very _late_ chief seer after she caught a peek today? I'd say it's going to make the destruction of the Hellmouth seem like a cozy glow."

Spike's gaze drifted past him to where the small figure of The Slayer stood motionless. Her expression, although still angry and afraid, was filled with uneasy hope. Beside her, Dawn looked equally as confused but, as he watched them, she reached slowly for her older sister's hand.

"And Buffy?" his voice was soft, but he couldn't keep the tremor out of it, "She and her pals going to be heading up the fight again?"

"What do you care?" Angel's lips hardened to a thin line, "You'll be busy breathing and eating Pop Tarts."

"I care," Spike's chin lifted an inch, "I want to help."

"Well, If by 'helping' you mean burning and dying along with all the other dumbass mortals then I'm sure you will."

"Hey!"

Willow's indignant voice interjected, and Angel frowned apologetically,

"Sorry."

She glared at him,

"So what? You're saying Spike shouldn't _shanshu_ , that you should go in his place?"

"I'm saying it never _was_ his place. It was _mine_."

"Says you!"

"No." Angel eyed her gravely for a moment before speaking, "Says _Miyatah_."

"Oh."

Willow's expression shifted slowly from annoyance through to surprise and then disbelief,

"Really? Miyatah?"

"His yatah?" Spike stared at both of them irritably. "What the bleeding hell is his 'yatah'?"

The portal behind the witch had stared to shift alarmingly and he was pretty sure it was shrinking. At least ten feet high a few minutes before, the arch now shimmered just a little above WIllow's head.

"Miyatah. She's an Oracle," she corrected herself, " _Was_ an Oracle. One of the gatekeepers of time. It's said that she grew bored of her existence and begged the Powers to grant her the ability to walk among the living, but then she fell in love with a mortal and never returned. No one actually believed she still existed."

The witches face showed great respect and a little fear, and turning back to Angel, she spoke in a low awed tone.

"How did you - you know - summon her?"

"She lives in Bakersfield."

"Oh." Willow's face fell a little, and she attempted a weak smile, "Well, it's very nice out there. Quiet."

Spike cleared his throat pointedly, and the witch suddenly remembered what she'd been going to ask.

"So what did she say?"

Angel shrugged,

"That I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed and fought alongside you guys and worn the amulet myself."

"So why didn't you?"

The vampire's expression clouded,

"Let's just say I had a lot on my mind that day," he sighed softly, "I got distracted."

"And what about me?"

Turning back yet again to the long established thorn in his side, Angel found himself suddenly growing terribly weary of explanation.

"What _about_ you?"

Spike rolled his eyes in exasperation,

"Did she say anything about what _my_ destiny was," fixing him with a sapphire-blue stare, he tilted his head to one side, "I mean if this whole mortality gig is really _yours,_ there must be something else in store for me right? Something other than death and glory I mean."

Warily, he eyed the ever-decreasing portal of light wavering in the air behind Willow,

"Maybe something you're deliberately not mentioning."

"No." Angel's jaw tightened a little, "Just she couldn't see anything too clearly."

"Clear enough to know I'm the one's going to be needed instead of you though, am I right?"

The vampire's silence spoke volumes, as did the tiny blood vessel that had suddenly begun jumping at the corner of his eye. Watching it in fascinated curiosity, Willow's mouth dropped open.

"Oh is it something about Buffy?" her face flushed pink with the realization of her discovery, "Oh my G...did Miyatah say something about Buffy and Spike?"

Angels' face paled a little more, and when he spoke the words were barely audible from between his clenched teeth,

"According to the Seer of Seers, _his_ destiny," his eyes drifted in disgust to Spike, "may or may not be to spend the rest of his days as 'the paramour of The Slayer, until his glorious' - and no doubt _horribly painful - '_ death defending her life and that of... " he gritted his teeth, "...'that of their hybrid-demon offspring'."

"Bollocks! You're making this up!"

"Really _really_ not."

Surprised, Spike exchanged a brief glance with Willow.

"So what d'you think? Sound like he's on the level to you?"

The witch shrugged,

"I don't know it sounds pretty farfetched," she curled her lip, scrutinizing Angel doubtfully, "I mean 'hybrid-demon offspring'?"

Frowning, Spike started to nod,

"But that part about the battle, where I save her, what if that's true? I want to be there. For her and Dawn, everyone she loves," looking past her, his eyes locked with Buffy's again, and a faint smile tugged at his lips, "If there's a way I can do that, I'm in. No matter what it costs. She's worth it."

Realizing the truth of it as he spoke, he swallowed, wondered how he could ever have even considered the idea of never seeing her again. Being without her now - that flame-bright girl whom his heart had known at first glance - was unthinkable. She was the other broken half of him and, whether he was allowed to remember or not, he knew that he would always be alone when they were apart.

Risking a glance back at Angel, he was surprised to see the vampire looking at him now with something approaching respect. Slapping the back of his shoulder lightly, the other man stepped forward to stand alongside him facing the portal.

"So you want to go make some history, William?"

Writhing and dancing in the air, the opening cast a golden light over both of their faces. Inside, nothing could be seen, only the shifting and swirling of a great shining cauldron, and looking at his grand-sire sideways Spike realized for the first time that he was smiling.

"I'm game if you are."

Cocking his head to one side, Angel gave him a crooked grin,

"And the part where you're an undead creature of the night again, and never get to see another sunrise? Doesn't bother you at all?"

"Sod it," shrugging, Spike toed the floor at his feet, narrowed his eyes and stared into the gleaming gateway, "Bleedin' sunrise is overrated anyway."

And together, they jumped.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

White-yellow light, and then a single clear image swam into his mind. Floating behind it, diaphanous but distinct, came a time and place.

Sometime during the first year he was turned, Dru had taken him to a portrait gallery. A shabby little place just off the Old Kent Road, it was the sort of establishment that - a month before and mortal - he'd have never deigned to enter. But now, with the fresh grave dirt under his nails and a taste like iron in his throat, it had seemed of little concern. Nothing was beneath him or above him now. He was no longer of this world, and his new eyes viewed the fetid darkness and choking filth of life in 1880s London with relish and fascination. Seated side by side with his princess under the flaring gas-lamps, he had smelt the man's fear of them as he bent under the camera's hood, readying the plate.

And then the flash as the powder had exploded had blinded him.

Blinking he tried to orientate himself, but he was gone - hands out and sprawling forward towards a ground that never seemed to come. Something whirled above him - razor sharp and silver - and fear surged, a terrible feeling of being helpless, half-woken from sleep and a nightmare that still clawed at his throat. Shaking his head to clear it, he rolled, twisting away from whatever was there, arms shielding his body and desperately tried to clear his vision.

Then light became dark for just a split second, guttering like a flame, but long enough to see the horror surrounding him. Everywhere bodies clashed and fell - some pale human, others grey brown and twisted like trees. Weapons glinting and thrusting, slicing, smoke choking him, and then the sound. Bubbling up as if he were surfacing water, the noise washed and then slammed into him like a wave, threw him back.

"Spike!"

And suddenly he was wide-awake for the first time in what seemed like weeks. The witch's spell had worked, and light flashed and flared into his face to show him so. Show him where he was, splayed out on his back and open to attack from every side when he should be beside her. Watching her back like always, and suddenly he was up and on his feet and stumbling to grab at the blade where it had fallen beside him.

He couldn't tell exactly how far along the fight was, but by the look of things it was pretty near reaching the climax. On all sides the Potentials were lashing out with a zeal and enthusiam he knew had to have come from their newly embued power and, despite being heavily outnumbered, their side was defienitely holding their own. Seeing it all again afresh, a surge of pride went through him. He'd been so preoccupied on the day, so caught up with the task he had to perform, he'd missed all this.

"Spike!"

Buffy's shout hadn't been for herself of course. Rock steady on her feet, he watched her bend and flex like a reed, eyes moving as fast as the scythe in her hand as she swung and sliced out around her in a wide spiraling arc. A fast low sweep and the grey figure in front of her and the one to the right showered into dust, and suddenly she was at his side. Her hand reached for his arm, grasped it,

"Are you hurt?"

"I...no..."

"Then _move_!"

Slicing up and back, her legs reached out in front of her, throwing her over and onto her feet as another of the Turok H'an exploded into dust. Her eyes flashed at him, urgency and confusion,

"Over there! They need your help."

Then he was up and running, no time to think, wonder at the feeling of his mind flooding with places, pictures, images - a hundred odd years of blood and mayhem - at the feeling of being suddenly stronger and more agile than he could ever have dreamed. Because, along with the images came the sure knowledge that this was it should be, he was as he should be, dark and light perfectly moulded in a body that was the perfect instrument of this struggle. Long, hard sinews made for smashing and slashing, and a strength that felt both limitless and perfectly controlled at the same time. Swinging forward with his borrowed blade he took the heads of two of the creatures in one clean razor-sharp move, and sailed on to the next.

_"Aren't you forgetting something?"_

The voice seemed to come from inside him, and for a second he lost his footing, stumbled to regain it as a familiar bulk swung in at him from his left. Catching at him with one hand, Angel's eyes locked on his, dark and deadly serious,

"There's a plan in action here, remember?"

His hand reached in and closed around the amulet hanging around his neck, even as Spike realized that it was there. Instinctively he moved to block Angel's grasp, and the other vampire's gaze narrowed,

"You have to _give it to me_!" tightening his grip, he bared his teeth in frustration, "Now, Spike! We only have a few seconds left."

It was a face he had never felt anything but hatred for, but suddenly he felt something else.

"You sure about this?"

"What?" Angels' eyes widened, confusion and dark shadows, "We had _a deal_ remember?"

Shaking his head in frustration, Spike pulled him in closer, laid a hand over his,

"I know that! I'm just saying...if you wanted to, you know, reconsider, I'd understand is all," he met his gaze, unable to resist a grin, "After all, s'not everyone that can save the world. Takes someone special..."

"Thanks."

Looking back at him, the vampire almost smiled as he lifted the chain from his neck and placed it around his own.

"I'll try and bear that in mind."

Stepping back from him, Spike frowned, hesitating even as light began to pour from the amulet around Angel's neck. But then a sharp cry from one of the girls tore his head round, and suddenly he was moving again, throwing himself back into the fight with a roar.

The battle seemed to last forever, although he knew in actual fact the whole thing had been over within a few more minutes. As soon as the talisman had begun its work, the Turok H'an had been driven back by its light and now, viewing it all from the other side, Spike could only wonder at the power of the thing. Like a setting sun, the shaft of pure energy it threw out was both beautiful and blinding. Fighting by his side, it took Buffy a moment or two to realize what was happening, and when she clutched at him in alarm.

"Spike, what have you _done_?"

Her eyes slid past him even as she asked the question, and watching her, he felt a stab of pain at the emotions he saw reflected there; her horror and complete disbelief. The scythe dropping to her side, she walked towards the light and swallowing his need to follow her, Spike turned back to the last of the fighters.

With his extra help, most of the uber-vamps on the upper level had been dispatched and the girls were holding their own against the rest. Seeing Xander stagger back from slicing through another, he stepped quietly to his side, catching his arm as he almost fell.

"You OK?"

"Yeah...yeah,"

He was panting, weak with exertion, but he managed to pull himself upright, only using the vampire's arm to steady himself.

"I see Angel managed to crash the party after all. Should've known he wouldn't want to miss out on the big one."

"Yeah...well"

The boy's face was pale and spotted with blood, and holding him up he was suddenly assailed by a unfamiliar feeling of compassion. Touching his shoulder gently, Spike indicated the remaining Slayers hacking their way capably through the opposition and then jerked his head toward the surface.

"Looks like we've got them on the run down here. Maybe you should think about getting out of here eh?"

Surprised, Xander hesitated for a second before nodding towards Buffy.

"So you want to go tell her or shall I?"

"Go. We'll catch up."

The light surrounding them was vivid gold and strangely painful to look at and, unable to approach any closer, Spike came to a halt a few feet away.

They had stopped talking now, and Buffy was crying softly, her hands covering her face. As she took them away, his heart twisted painfully with the knowledge that, this time, none of it was for him. Love, despair, pain and admiration, it was all for Angel, and despite everything it still hurt. Hanging his head, he looked at the ground.

"Spike?"

Her voice was soft and small, as small as her hand as she reached for his, her fingers sliding through his own. Looking up he took in her face, the tears shining wetly on her cheeks, and then the smile, as fragile as frost.

"I'm ready. We should go now."

His mouth opened a little in disbelief, the words refusing to come. Behind her, the pain was clearly etched on Angel's face, but he struggled to speak.

"I told her as much as I could. She knows this was my call, not yours."

He closed his eyes, and the shaft of light pouring from him suddenly gained in strength. Drawing a deep breath, he opened them one last time, fixed him with a stare like an dying sun.

"You sure as... _hell_ better look after her, Spike."

"I will," he stepped back, "I promise I will."

And then hand in hand, they ran.

 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 

He saw it all this time.

The town as it fell way behind them; the churches and their steeples, the fences, homes, cars tumbling into nothing as the crevasse opened, and even as the sure knowledge that they _would_ escape filled him, he was horrified. Afraid. Awed by the destruction and loss, and then by the overwhelming feeling of relief as the distance opened up between them.

When at last the vehicle slowed to standstill he realized that her hand had never left his the whole time. Turning to him, she smiled sadly. Her eyes seemed greener then ever, luminous.

"I'm going to get out and have a look." she touched the back of his hand, "I won't be long okay?"

"I'll still be here."

She nodded and, stepping outside, she glanced back at him before reaching with a hand to smooth back her hair. Beside her, gazing out across the crater, he heard Giles' voice - humbled a little by the sheer scale of their victory,

"What _did_ this?"

"Angel," Buffy's words were taken by the desert air and blown back to him, "He said it was his gift to me, to all of us," her voice softened, "A parting gift."

"A _parting_ gift?"

Behind her Xander raised his eyebrows, before turning to reach for Anya's hand. Taking it, his ex-demon ex-fiancee hooked her arm through his, ran a hand gently through his dishevelled hair.

"Well, that's was very thoughtful of him. Remind me to send him...you know...a fruit-basket or something, " she frowned, staring at the smoking crater, "Next time we can _afford_ some fruit."

The small group disbanded, trickling back towards the bus, and he watched as Harris reached down to help his girl up the step. Listened to Willow's soft laugh as she settled in beside Kennedy, saw Giles share a weary grin of relief with Faith. Outside, his two were the last to leave the scene. Looking down into the crater, Dawn frowned.

"So no more Hellmouth?" softly, she scuffed a toe in the dirt, "That's a good thing right."

"A _very_ good thing."

"So what now?"

A faint smile touched her sister's lips, and when she turned back to face him, her gaze met sparkling with his own. Worlds of possibilities were written there. A whole lifetime's worth.

And who needed bloody sunrises anyway?

 

They had destiny.


	13. Epilogue

Heat.

He felt heat, and blinding light.

Light, and heat, _and searing pain._

And then suddenly, nothing more.

Silence.

Utter and complete.

It seemed that hours drifted by, days even, before his eyes were able to open even a little. But when they did, the dazzling colour of the sky and his surroundings blinded him for a good while longer. The landscape around him was barren, but the vibrancy and beauty of it astounded him. Lifting his head, he brought his hands up to steady himself before rising to his knees.

Where was he?

Some lonely place that was certain. Not a single house or car or road in sight, and only the soft gentle whisper of a dry wind in the air, stroking his face. High above his head a bird called, a wild lonely sound that soared like a single perfect note drawn from a string and, shading his eyes, he looked up to see it. Watched it wheel and float on the air like a great black kite.

A long while passed before he moved again. Pushing himself easily up and onto his feet, dusted his clothes down with the flats of his hands, reached behind him to slap the sand from his behind. Frowned. The clothes he was wearing seemed a little dark and heavy for a midday walk, and with a small stir of surprise his fingers closed on something thick and flat jammed down into his back pocket.

An envelope. Smooth, thick cream cloured paper, and on its surface two words written in neat scrolling copperplate hand;

:: _Open Me_ ::

Pushing a finger under the flap he tore into it, and was only slightly more surprised to find what it contained. A neat fold of bills, six maybe seven hundred dollars in total, and an airline ticket and passport. Frowning again, this time with amusement, he studied the cover, dark red with a small golden harp, flipped it open easily with one hand and then smiled when he saw the picture inside. A pale face with short dark hair, and underneath, a name: Liam Kilpatrick.

_Liam. Did he feel like a Liam?_

Touched his face just to make sure, but knew instinctively that, yes. The man in the photograph was him. And the ticket's destination, did that seem familiar too? The name had a lyrical quality to it: 'Dublin, Ireland', and somehow he knew that the place was green and lush, rolling hills and streams and small villages nestled like jewels in it's valleys.

It suddenly struck him that this was all a little odd. Odd, but strangely exciting. Like a game he was playing. An adventure that he himself had planned, and shaking his head he laughed out loud and then looked around him to see if anyone was watching, anyone in on the big joke. But there was no one and nothing. Only the faint soft cry of the bird high overhead, and the sound of the desert wind gently lifting the sand. Nothing but perfect peace and, whistling softly to himself, he turned and started walking east.  


 

 

THE END


End file.
